t^-._*Hr 


,v 


\ 


For  full  list  of  titles  in 
the  Modern  Library 
see  the  pages  at  the 
end  of  this  voltime. 


POEMS 


By    FRANCOIS    VILLON 


e 


TRANSLATED  WITH  INTRODUCTION 
BY    JOHN    PAYNE 


BONI   AND   LIVERIGHT,   INC. 


PUBLISHERS       .  • .       N  E  W  Y  0  R  K 


l'S90 

■  /  ■  - 

CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 9 

The  Lesser  Testament 89 

The  Greater  Testament 105 

Divers  Poems 195 

Poems  Attributed  to  Villon 217 

Translations  by  Rossetti 225 

Translations  by  Swinburne 231 


INTRODUCTION 


i 
1 


2055831 


INTRODUCTION* 


There  are  few  names  in  the  history  of  literature 
over  which  the  shadow  has  so  long  and  so  persistently 
lain  as  over  that  of  the  father  of  French  poetry.  Up 
to  no  more  distant  period  than  the  early  part  of  the 
year  1877,  it  was  not  even  known  what  was  his  real 
name,  nor  were  the  admirers  of  his  genius  in  posses- 
sion of  any  other  facts  relative  to  his  personal  his- 
tory than  could  be  gleaned,  by  a  laborious  process  of 
inference  and  deduction,  from  such  works  of  his  as 
have  been  handed  down  to  posterity.  The  materials 
that  exist  for  the  biography  of  Shakespeare  or  Dante 
are  scanty  enough,  but  they  present  a  very  harvest 
of  fact  and  suggestion  compared  with  the  pitiable 
fragments  which  have  so  long  represented  our  sole 
personal  knowledge  of  Villon.  That  he  had  been 
twice  condemned  to  death  for  unknown  offences ;  that 
his  father  was  dead  and  his  mother  still  living  at  the 
time  he  reached  his  thirtieth  year ;  that  he  attended 
the  courses  of  the  University  of  Paris  in  the  capacity 
of  scholar  and  presumably  attained  the  quality  of 
Licentiate  in  Arts,  entitling  him  to  the  style  of  Domi- 
nus  or  Maitre;  above  all,  that  his  companions  and 
acquaintances  were  of  the  lowest  and  most  disreput- 
able  class   and,  indeed,   that  he  himself  wasted  his 


*  The  following  essay  was  written  in  1878  and  was  first 
published  in  1881,  by  way  of  introduction  to  the  expurgated 
edition  of  the  Poems.  I  have  thought  it  best  to  leave  it 
substantially  unaltered,  incorporating  such  supplementary 
matter  as  is  necessary  to  bring  it  up  to  date  in  the  form  of 
additional  notes,  distinguished  by  brackets. 

9 


10  INTRODUCTION 

youth  in  riot  and  debauchery  and  scrupled  not  to 
resort  to  the  meanest  and  most  revolting  expedients 
to  furnish  forth  that  life  of  alternate  lewd  plenty 
and  sheer  starvation  which,  Bohemian  in  grain  as  he 
was,  lie  preferred  to  the  decent  dullness  of  a  middle- 
class  life ;  and  that  he  owed  his  immunity  from  pun- 
ishment partly  to  accidents,  such  as  the  succession 
of  Louis  XI  to  his  father's  throne,  and  partly  to  the 
intervention  of  influential  protectors,  probabl}'  at- 
tracted b}"  his  eminent  literary  merits,  amongst 
whom  stood  prominent  his  namesake  and  supposed 
relative,  Guillaurae  de  Villon ; — such  were  the  main 
scraps  and  parings  of  inform.ation  upon  which,  until 
the  publication  of  M.  Longnon's  "Etude  Biogra- 
phique,"  *  we  had  alone  to  rely  for  our  conception 
of  the  man  in  his  habit  as  he  lived.  Even  now  the 
facts  and  dates,  which  M.  Longnon  has  so  valiantly 
and  so  ingeniously  rescued  for  us  from  the  vast 
charnelhouse  of  mediaeval  history,  are  in  themselves 
scanty  enough,  and  it  is  necessary  to  apply  to  their 
connection  and  elucidation  no  mean  amount  of  study 
and  labour  before  anything  like  a  definite  frame- 
work of  biography  can  be  constructed  from  them. 
Such  as  they  are,  however,  thev  enable  us  for  tlio 
first  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  c^ie  strange  mad  life 
and  dissolute  yet  attractive  personality  of  the  wild, 
reckless,  unfortunate  Parisian  poet,  whose  splendid 
if  erratic  verse  flames  out  like  a  meteor  from  the 
somewhat  dim  twilight  of  French  fifteenth-century 
literature. 


*  Etude  Biographique  sur  FranQois  Villon,  d'apres  les  docu- 
ments inedits  conserves  aux  Archives  Nationales.  Par 
Augusta    Longnon.      Paris,    1877. 


INTROnrCTION  II 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  example  so  ably  sot  by 
M.  Longnon  will  not  be  allowed  to  remain  unfol- 
lowod  and  that  new  seekers  in  the  labyrinth  of  mediae- 
val ai'chives  and  records  will  succeed  in  fillinf^  uj)  for 
us  those  yawning  gaps  in  Villon's  history  which  are 
yet  too  painfully  apparent.*  M,  Longnon,  indeed, 
seems  to  imply  a  promise  that  he  himself  has  not  yet 
said  his  last  word  upon  the  subject;  and  we  m".j 
fairly  look,  within  the  next  few  years,  for  new  help 
and  guidance  at  the  hands  of  M.  Auguste  Vitu,  when 
he  at  last  gives  to  the  world  his  long  and  anxiously 
awaited  edition  of  the  poems,  a  work  which,  consid- 
ering the  special  qualifications  and  opportunities  of 
the  editor  and  the  devotion  with  which  he  has  a]>plicd 
himself  to  the  task,  may  be  expected  to  prove  the 
definitive  edition  of  Villon. f 


[*The  hopes  expressed  in  the  above  paragraph  have  now 
to  a  certain  extent  been  realised  bj"  the  labours  of  AIM. 
Bijvanck,  Schwob,  Paris.  ScIi<"'no  and  others,  as  well  as  by 
those  of  M.  Longnon  himself ;  but  much  j^et  remains  to  be 
done.     See  Prefatory  Note.] 

fl  owe  to  the  kindness  of  M.  \'itu  the  following  particulars 
of  the  scheme  of  his  forthcoming  edition  of  Villon,  which 
will  serve  to  show  the  great  scope  and  importance  of  the 
work,  now  in  an  advanced  stage  of  preparation.  It  will  form 
four  volumes,  the  first  of  which  will  consist  wholly  of  notices 
upon  Villon  and  his  contemporaries,  completing  and  correct- 
ing all  that  has  been  hitherto  published  on  the  subject.  The 
second  volume  will  comprise  the  complete  text  of  \'illon, 
augmented  by  several  authentic  poems  hitlierto  unknown,  an 
appendix  containing  pieces  written  in  imitation  of  the  old 
poet  and  a  short  treatise  upon  mediaeval  prosody  and  versi- 
fication, in  correction  of  the  errors  and  laches  of  modern 
scliolars.  Tlie  text  presented  will  be  founded  wholly  upon 
the  manuscripts,  the  gothic  editions  being  all,  according  to 
M.  \'itu,  incorrect,  garbled  and  incomplete.  The  third  vi.lume 
will  comprise  tlie  "Jargon,"  with  the  addition  of  five  unpub- 
lished ballads,  besides  a  philological  interpretation  and  a 
history  of  the  work:  and  the  fourth  will  contain  an  ex- 
haustive glossary.  (Since  the  above  note  was  written  (in 
l88i),  M.  Villi  has  died,  leaving  his  work  uncompleted.  See 
Prefatory  Note. J 


12  INTRODUCTION 

In  putting  together  the  following  pages  I  should 
be  sorry  to  allow  it  to  be  supposed  that  I  contem- 
plated any  exhaustive  study  of  the  man  or  of  his 
work.  My  sole  object  has  been  to  present  the  facts 
and  hypotheses,  of  which  we  are  in  possession  on  the 
subject,  in  such  a  plain  and  accessible  form  as  may 
furnish  to  those  readers  of  the  translation  of  his 
strange  and  splendid  verse  who  (and  we  know  that 
they  are  as  yet  many)  are  unacquainted  with  the 
poems,  and  perhaps  even  with  the  name  of  Villon,* 
some  unpretentious  introduction,  a"?  well  as  to  his 
personality  and  habit  of  thought  as  ^o  the  circum- 
stance and  local  colouring  of  his  verse.  The  rest  I 
leave  to  more  competent  hands  than  my  own,  con- 
tent if  I  have,  in  the  following  sketch  and  in  the 
translation  to  which  it  is  intended  to  serve  as  preface, 
set  ajar  one  more  door,  long  sadly  moss-grown  and 
ivy-hidden,  into  that  enchanted  wonderland  of  French 
poetry,  which  glows  with  such  spring-tide  glory  of 
many-coloured  bloom,  such  autumn  majesty  of  ma- 
tured fruit. 


*  The  uncertainty  that  has  so  long  obscured  every  detail 
of  Villon's  life  has  extended  even  to  the  pronunciation  of  the 
name  by  which  he  is  known  to  posterity.  It  has  been,  and 
still  is.  the  custom  to  pronounce  the  poet's  adoptive  name 
Vilon,  diS.  if  written  with  one  /,  and  it  is  only  of  late  years 
that  this  error  (no  doubt  due  to  the  proverbial  carelessness 
of  the  French,  and  more  especially  of  the  Parisian  public, 
with  regard  to  the  pronunciation  of  proper  names)  has  been 
authoritatively  corrected.  As  M.  Jannet  remarks  it  is  only  in 
the  Midi  that  folk  know  how  to  sound  the  //  mouilles  or 
liquid  //.  It  has  now,  however,  been  conclusively  demon- 
strated that  the  correct  pronunciation  of  the  name  is  Vilion, 
the  poet  himself  (as  was  first  pointed  out  by  M.  Jannet) 
always  rhyming  it  with  such  words  as  pavilion,  tourbillon, 
bouillon,  aiguilloH,  etc.,  in  which  the  //  are  liquid ;  and  a  still 
more  decisive  argument  is  furnished  by  M.  Longnon,  who  has 


INTRODUCTION  13 


Tlic  year  1431  may,  without  impropriety,  be 
styled  the  grand  climacteric  of  Frencli  national  life. 
After  a  hundred  years'  struggle  for  national  exist- 
ence against  the  great  soldiers  produced  in  uninter- 
ru|)ted  succession  by  England,  apparently  with  no 
other  object  than  the  conquest  of  the  neighbouring 
continent,  as  well  as  against  far  more  dangerous  and 
insidious  intestine  enemies ;  after  having  seen  three- 
quarters  of  the  kingdom,  of  which  Charles  VI  was 
the  nominal  king,  bowed  in  ajiparentl}'  permanent 
subjection  to  the  foreign  foe,  the  French  people  had 
at  last  succeeded  in  placing  on  the  head  of  Charles 
^'II  the  crown  of  his  fathers,  thanks  to  the  super- 
human efforts  of  two  of  the  noblest  women  that  ever 
lived,  .Jeanne  d'Arc  and  Agnes  Sorel,  and  to  the  un- 
selfish devotion  of  the  great-hearted  patriot  Jacques 
Coeur.  On  the  31st  of  May,  1431,  the  heroine  of 
Domremy  consummated  the  most  glorious  life  of 
which  the  history  of  womankind  affords  example  by 
an  equally  noble  death  upon  the  pyre  of  Rouen  :  not, 
however,   before   she   had    fulfilled  her   sublime   pur- 


noted,  in  the  course  of  his  researches,  that  the  Latin  form 
of  the  patronymic,  as  it  appears  in  contemporarj^  documents, 
is  Villiotw,  and  that  the  name  is  spelt  in  error  Vignon  in  a 
record  of  the  Court  of  Parliament,  dated  25th  July.  1425.  in 
which  Guillaume  de  Villon  is  shown  by  internal  evidence  to 
be  the  person  referred  to,  thus  proving  by  inference  that  the 
//  of  the  name,  apparently  imperfectly  caught  from  dictation, 
must  necessarily  have  been  liquid  :  otherwise  they  could  hardly 
have  been  mistaken  for  another  liquid,  g}\.  Moreover  (and 
this  information  also  we  owe  to  M.  Longnon)  the  name  of 
the  village  which  gave  birth  to  the  Canon  of  St.  Benoit  is  to 
this  day  pronounced  Viiwn. 

5 


14  INTRODUCTION 

pose.      Before  her  death  she  had  seen  the  achieve- 
ment of  the  great  object,  the  coronation  of  Charles 
VII  at  Rheims,  which  she  had  originally  proposed  to 
herself    as    the    term    of    her    unparalleled    political 
career:   and  the  English,  driven   out  of  stronghold 
after  stronghold,  province  after  province,  Avere  now- 
obliged  to  concentrate  their  efforts  on  the  retention 
of  the  provinces   of  Normandy  and  Guienne.     Nor 
was  it  long  ere  even  this  limited  purpose  was  per- 
force abandoned.     Paris,  after  sixteen  years  of  for- 
eign occupation,  opened  her  gates  to  her  legitimate 
king  and  four  or  five  more  years  sufficed  to  complete 
the  permanent  expulsion  of  the  English  from  France. 
The  heroic  peasant  girl  of  Lorraine  had  not  only 
recovered  for  the  Dauphin  his  lawful  inheritance ;  she 
had    created    the    French    people.      Until    her    time 
France  had   been   inhabited  by   Bretons,   Angevins, 
Bourbonnais,  Burgundians,  Poitevins,  Armagnacs  ;  at 
last  the  baptism  of  fire  through  which  the  land  had 
passed  and  the  breath  of  heroism  that  emanated  from 
the  Maid  of  Orleans  had  welded   together  the   con- 
flicting sections   and  had   informed   them  with   that 
breath  of  patriotism  which  is  the  beginning  of  all 
national  life.    France  had  at  length  become  a  nation. 
The  change  was  not  yet  complete :  there  remained  yet 
much  to  be  done  and  suffered  before  the  precious  gift 
so  hardly  won  could  be  definitively  assured:    Louis 
XI,  with  his  cold  wisdom  and  his  unshrinking  deter- 
mination, was  yet  to  consolidate  by  the  calculated 
severity  of  his  administration  and  the  supple  firm- 
ness  of  his   domestic   and   foreign   policy    (long   so 
grossly  misunderstood  and  calumniated)   the  unity 
and  harmony   of  the   young  realm.      Still   the   new 


INTRODUCTIOX  15 

national  life  had  been  effectually  conquered  and  it 
onl}'^  remained  for  time  and  wisdom  to  confirm  and 
substantiate  it. 

One  of  the  most  salient  symptoms  of  a  national 
iiii})ulse  of  regeneration  is  commonly  afforded  by  the 
consolidation  and  individualisation  of  the  national 
speech.  I  should  say  rather,  perhaps,  that  such  a 
phenomenon  is  one  of  those  most  necessary  to  such 
a  popular  movement  and  therefore  most  to  be  ex- 
pected from  it,  thougli  it  may  not  always  be  possible 
to  trace  the  correspondence  of  the  one  with  the  other. 
However,  it  is  certain  that  the  converse  generally 
holds  true,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  so  in  the  present 
instance.  Up  to  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century 
France  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  possessed  a 
national  language ;  the  Langue  d'Oil,  for  want  of 
writers  of  supreme  genius,  had  hardly  as  yet  become 
fashioned  into  an  individual  tongue.  It  is  to  poets 
rather  than  to  prose  writers  that  we  must  look  for 
the  influences  that  stimulate  and  direct  the  growth 
of  a  national  speech,  and  there  is,  perhaps,  no  in- 
stance in  which  the  power  of  a  true  poet  is  more 
decisively  visible  than  in  his  control  over  the  creation 
and  definition  of  a  language,  especially  during  peri- 
ods of  national  formation  and  transition.  Up  to  the 
time  of  which  I  speak,  this  influence  had  been  wanting 
in  France.  During  the  fourteenth  century  and  the 
earlier  part  of  the  next,  her  poetic  literature  had 
consisted  mainly  of  imitations  of  the  elder  poets, 
t  specially  of  Guillaume  de  Lorris  and  Jehan  de 
Meung,  of  the  Chansons  de  Geste  and  other  heroic 
ro:.mnces  and  probably  also  of  the  Troubadours  or 
poets  of  the  Langue  d'Oc.    Abundance  of  sweet  sing- 


16  INTRODUCTION 

ers    had    arisen    and    passed    away,    most    of    them 
modelled  upon  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  whose  influ- 
ence had  been  as  that  of  the  plane,  beneath  which,  it 
is  said,  no  corn  will  ripen.     Under  its  shadow  there 
had  sprung  up  abundance  of  flowers,  but  they  were 
those  rather  of  the  hothouse  and  the  garden  than  the 
robuster   and  healthier  denizens   of   the   woods   and 
fields.     There  was  hardly  any  breath  of  national  life 
in  the  singers  of  the  time:    Guillaume  de  Machau, 
Eustache  Deschamps,  Jehan  Froissart,  Christine  de 
Pisan,  Alain   Chartier,   Charles   d'Orleans,  were  in- 
deed poets  of  the  second  order,  of  whom  any  country 
might  be  proud;  but  they  were  poets  who   (if  one 
should  except  from  their  verse  its  accidental   local 
colouring)  might,  for  all  that  they  evince  of  national 
life  and  national  spirit,  have  been  produced  in  any 
country  where  a  like  and  sufficient  culture  prevailed. 
The    thirteenth    century   had    indeed   produced    one 
poet,  Rutubeuf,   in  whose  "Complaintes"   ran   some 
breath  of  popular  feeling,  sorely  limited,  however,  by 
deficient  power  and  lacking  inspiration  in  the  singer ; 
and  in  some  of  the  productions  of  the  poets  I  have 
named  above,  notably  in  Deschamps'  fine  ballad  on 
the   death   of   the   great   Constable   du   Guesclin,   in 
Christine  de  Pisan's  pathetic  lament  over  the  mad- 
ness of  Charles  VI  and  the  state  of  the  kingdom  and 
in  the  anonymous  poem  known  as  "Le  Combat  des 
Trente,"   there   breathes   some   nobler   and   stronger 
spirit,  some  distant  echo  of  popular  passion;  nor  is 
the  sweet  verse  of  Charles  d'Orleans  wanting  in  patri- 
otic notes,  touched,  unfortunately,  with  too  slight  a 
hand.     But  these  are  few  and  far  between ;  the  sub- 
jects usually  chosen  are  love  and  chivalry,  questions 


INTRODUCTION  17 

of  honour,  gallantry  and  religion,  treated  allcgoric- 
allv  and  rhetorically  after  the  extinct  and  artificial 
fashion  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose.  Beautiful  as  is 
often  the  colour  and  cadence  of  the  verse,  we  cannot 
but  feel  that  it  is  a  beauty  and  a  charm  which  belong 
to  a  past  age  and  which  have  no  living  relation  to 
that  in  which  they  saw  the  light.  In  perusing  the 
poetry  of  the  time,  one  seems  to  be  gazing  upon  in- 
terminable stretches  of  antique  tapestry,  embroidered 
in  splendid  but  somewhat  faded  hues,  wherein  armed 
knights  and  ladies,  clad  in  (juaintly-cut  raiment  and 
adorned  with  ornaments  of  archaic  form,  sit  at  the 
banquet,  stray  a-toying  in  gardens,  ride  a-hawking 
in  fields  or  pass  a-hunting  through  woods,  where 
every  flower  is  moulded  after  a  conventional  pattern 
and  no  leaf  dares  assert  itself  save  for  the  purpose 
of  decoration.  Here  everything  is  prescribed:  the 
bow  of  the  knight  as  he  kneels  before  his  lady,  the 
sweep  of  the  chA-telaine's  robe  through  the  bannered 
galleries,  the  fall  of  the  standard  on  the  wind,  the 
career  of  the  w^ar-horse  through  the  lists,  the  flight 
of  the  birds  through  the  air,  the  motions  of  the  deer 
that  stand  at  gaze  in  the  woods, — all  are  ordered  in 
obedience  to  a  certain  strictly  prescribed  formula, 
in  which  one  feels  that  nature  and  passion  have  ceased 
to  have  any  sufficient  part.  Whether  one  wanders 
with  Charles  d'Orlcans  through  the  forest  of  Ennuy- 
cuse  Tristesse,  conversing  with  Dangier,  Amour, 
Beaulte  d' Amours,  Faux  Dangier,  Dame  jNIerencolie 
and  a  host  of  other  allegorical  personages,  or  listens 
to  Guillaume  de  Machau,  as,  with  a  thousand  quaint 
conceits  and  gallant  devices,  he  compares  his  lady  to 
David's  harp  with  its  twenty-five  strings,  one  feels 


18  INTRODUCTION 

that  one  is  gazing  upon  phantoms  and  moving  in  a 
dead  world,  from  which  the  colour  and  the  glory  are 
hopelessly  faded.  It  is  not  poets  of  the  trouvere  or 
troubadour  order  who  can  have  any  decisive  effect 
upon  the  new  growth  of  a  nation,  as  it  emerges  from 
the  fiery  furnace  of  national  regeneration ;  it  is  for 
no  mere  sweet  singer  that  the  task  of  giving  to  the 
national  speech  that  new  impulse  which  shall  corre- 
spond with  its  political  and  social  advance  is  reserved. 
The  chosen  one  may  be  rude,  lacking  in  culture,  gross 
in  thought  or  form,  but  he  must  and  will  come  with 
lips  touched  with  the  fire  of  heaven  and  voice  ringing 
with  the  accents  of  a  new  world.  Such  a  poet  was 
called  for  by  the  necessities  of  the  time  and  such  an 
one  was  provided,  by  the  subtle  influences  which  order 
the  mechanism  of  national  formation,  in  the  very  year 
that  saw  the  consecration  of  French  nationality  by 
the  death  of  the  Martyr  of  Rouen. 

II 

Francois  de  Montcorbier,  better  known  as  Villon, 
from  the  name  of  his  lifelong  patron  and  protector, 
was  born  in  the  year  1431,  within  a  few  weeks  or  days 
of  the  capital  political  event  of  which  I  have  just 
spoken.  It  is  uncertain  what  place  may  claim  the 
honour  of  his  birth,  but  the  probabilities  apy)ear  to  be 
in  favour  of  his  having  been  born  at  some  village  near 
(or  at  least  in  the  diocese  of)  Paris,  entitling  him  to 
the  style  of  Parisiensis  or  de  Paris,  which  he  com- 
monly adopts,  and  also,  combined  with  residence  and 
graduation  at  the  Paris  University,  to  certain  mu- 
nicipal and  other  privileges  of  citizenship,  such  as  the 


INTRODUCTION  19 

right  of  voting  at  the  election  of  Echevins  or  no- 
tables. It  seems  ])robable  that  he  belonged  to  a  de- 
cayed and  impoverished  branch  of  the  noble  family 
of  Montcorbier,  wlio  took  their  name  from  a  fief  and 
village  (since  disappeared)  in  the  Bourbonnais,  and 
that  to  this  connection  with  the  duchy  he  was  in- 
debted for  the  moderate  countenance  and  assistance 
which  he  seems  to  have  received  at  the  hands  of  the 
princes  of  the  ducal  family  of  Bourbon.  The  only 
fact  certainly  known  about  his  relatives  is  that  he 
had  an  uncle,  a  priest  established  at  Angers  in  Anjou, 
to  whom  he  paid  at  least  one  visit  with  a  sufficiently 
questionable  purpose,  and  that  the  rest  of  his  family 
(with  the  exception  of  his  mother,  as  to  whom  we  pos- 
sess no  biogra]ihical  details  whatever)  utterly  and 
consistently  refused  to  recognise  him, — according  to 
his  own  story,  because  of  his  lack  of  means, — but,  it 
may  rather  be  assumed,  on  account  of  the  very  un- 
savoury nature  of  his  connections  and  the  incessant 
scandal  of  his  life.  Decent  people  (as  we  mav  pre- 
sume these  relatives  of  his  to  have  been)  might  well  be 
allowed  to  consider  their  connection  with  Master 
Francj-ois  Villon  of  brawling,  wenching,  lock-picking 
and  cheating  notoriety  as  anything  but  a  desirable 
one,  and  history  will  hardly  reproach  them  with  their 
unwillingness  to  cultivate  it.  However  this  may  be,  it 
is  certain  that  the  only  relative  who  appears  to  have 
had  any  share  in  Villon's  life  was  his  mother :  and  it 
is  little  likely  that  she,  whom  he  describes  as  a  poor 
old  woman,  unlettered  and  feeble,  and  who  (as  he  him- 
self confesses)  suflPered  on  his  account  "bitter  anguish 
and  many  sorrows,"  could  have  exercised  any  consid- 
erable influence  over  her  brilliant,  turbulent,  ne'er-do- 


20  INTRODUCTION 

weel  son.  Yet  he  seems  always,  in  the  midst  of  the 
mire  of  his  Hfe,  to  have  kept  one  place  in  his  heart 
white  with  that  filial  love  which  outlasts  all  others 
and  which  has  so  often  been  to  poets  the  perfume  of 
their  lives.  In  the  words  of  Theophile  Gautier,  his 
love  for  his  mother  shines  out  of  the  turmoil  and 
ferment  of  his  life  like  a  white  and  serene  lily  spring- 
ing from  the  heart  of  a  marsh.  His  father  he  only 
mentions  to  tell  us  that  he  is  dead,  when  or  how  there 
is  nothing  to  show,  and  to  state  that  he  was  poor  and 
of  mean  extraction,  nor  have  we  any  information  as 
to  his  condition  or  the  position  in  which  he  left  his 
family.  We  do  not  even  know  whether  Villon's  mother 
inhabited  Paris  or  not,  but  it  would  appear  probable 
that  she  did,  from  his  mention  in  the  ballad  that  bears 
her  name  of  the  monstier  or  convent  church  (prob- 
ably I'Eglise  des  Celestins  *)  in  which  she  was 
wont  to  say  her  orisons  and  which  was  decorated  with 
paintings  little  likely  to  have  then  existed  in  any  of 
the  villages  about  Paris,  However,  the  want  of  living 
and  available  family  connections  was  amply  compen- 
sated to  Villon  by  the  protecting  care  of  a  patron 
who  seems  to  have  taken  him  under  his  wing  and  per- 
haps even  adopted  him  at  an  early  age.    Guillaume  de 


*  I  cannot  agree  with  M.  Longnon  in  considering  the  Abbe 
Valentin  Dufour  wrong  in  his  suggestion  that  the  church  to 
which  Villon  makes  his  mother  refer  might  have  been  I'Eglise 
des  Celestins,  which  was  decorated  with _  pictures  of  heaven 
and  hell  precisely  answering  to  the  description  in  the  ballad. 
The  very  word  used  by  Villon  (monstier,  \.  e.  monasterium, 
the  old  form  of  the  modern  mouticr)  points  to  the  probability 
of  the  church  having  been  a  conventual  one ;  and  we  need 
not  read  the  words  "dont  je  suis  paroissienne"  as  meaning 
more  than  that  the  convent  where  she  made  her  orisons  was 
situated  in  her  own  parish  or  that  she  was  a  regular  attendant 
at  the  services  held  there  and  so  looked  upon  it  as  practically 
her  parish  church. 


INTRODUCTION  21 

Villon,  the  patron  in  question,  was  a  respectable  and 
ap{)arcntly    well-to-do    ecclesiastic,    bclon^ng   to    a 
family    established    at    a   village   of   the    same    name 
(which  I  believe  still  exists),  Villon,  near  Tonnerre,  in 
the  dominions  of  the  ducal  house  of  Burgundy,  and 
the  worthy  priest  appears  to  have  turned  his  origin 
to  good  account  in  securing  the  ])atronage  of  that 
princely  family,  which  in  all  probability  he  was  able 
in    some    measure    to    divert    to    the    benefit    of    his 
protege.     We  first  hear  of  Messire  Guillaume  as  one 
of  the  chaplains  of  the  parish   church  of  the  little 
village  of  Gentilly,  near  Paris,  during  his  occupancy 
of  which  cure  he  probably  formed  an  acquaintance 
with  the  poet's  family,  which  afterwards  led  to  his 
undertaking  the  charge  of  their  son.     About  the  year 
of   Francois'    birth,    Messire   Guillaume    obtained    a 
long-awaited  promotion  :  through  the  influence,  prob- 
ably, of  the  Burgundian  family  he  was  appointed  to  a 
stall  in  the  cathedral  church  of  St.  Benoit  le  Betourne 
or  Bientourne  at  Paris,  a  lucrative  benefice,  involv- 
ing, besides  a  handsome  residence  called  L'Hotel  de 
la  Porte  Rouge,  in  the  Close  or  Cloister  of  St.  Benoit, 
a  considerable  piece  of  land  and  a  stipend  enabling 
him  to  live  at  his  ease.     In  addition  to  his  official  in- 
come, he  must  have  had  some  private  fortune,  as  he 
possessed,  to  our  knowledge,  at  least  two  houses  in  the 
neighbourhood,  which  he  let  out  to  tenants,  and  a 
considerable  rent-charge  upon  a  third,  which  latter, 
however,  the  good  easy  man  appears  hardly  to  have 
troubled  himself  to  collect,  as,  at  the  time  it  is  men- 
tioned in  the  archives  of  the  Chapter,  we  find  it  stated 
that  no  less  than  eight  years'  rent  was  then  in  arrear. 
In   this   position  he   remained   till  his   death,   which 


22  INTRODUCTION 

occurred  in  1468:  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe 
that  he  survived  his  protege,  towards  whom,  during 
the  whole  of  his  life,  he  appears  never  to  have  re- 
laxed from  untiring  and  unobtrusive  benevolence. 
The  disreputable  nature  of  the  poet's  life  and  the 
perpetually  recurring  troubles  in  which  he  became 
involved  seem  to  have  had  no  effect  in  inducing  the 
good  Canon  to  withdraw  his  protection  from  so  ap- 
parently unworthy  an  object,  and  (according  to  Vil- 
lon himself)  he  was  the  ordinary  Deus  ex  macliina  to 
whom  the  poet  looked  for  deliverance  from  the  conse- 
quences of  his  OAvn  folly  and  misconduct.  Of  no  other 
person  does  Villon  speak  in  the  same  unqualified  terms 
of  grateful  affection  as  of  tlie  Canon  of  St.  Benoit, 
calling  him  "his  more  than  father,  who  had  been  to 
him  more  tender  than  mothers  to  their  sucking 
babes."  Indeed,  such  honour  and  affection  did  he 
bear  him  that  we  find  him  on  one  occasion  (with  a 
consideration  little  to  have  been  expected  from  such  a 
scapegrace)  actually  begging  the  good  Canon  to 
leave  hin)  to  his  fate  and  not  compromise  his  own 
reputation  by  taking  any  steps  in  the  interest  of  so 
disreputable  a  connection. 

Of  the  early  life  of  Villon  we  know  nothing  what- 
ever, except  that  he  must  have  entered  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Paris  about  the  year  1446,  when  he  was 
fifteen  years  of  age.  In  March  1 449  he  Avas  admitted 
to  the  Baccalaureate  and  became  Licentiate  in 
Theology  or  Ecclesiastical  liaw  and  Master  of  Arts 
in  the  summer  of  1 452.  During  the  six  years  of  his 
studies,  it  is  probable  that  he  resided  with  Guillaume 
de  Villon  at  L'Hotel  de  la  Porte  Rouge,  which  ad- 
joined the  College  de  Sorbonne,  and  that  the  weekly 


INTRODUCTION  23 

payment  of  two  sols  Parisis,  wliich  as  a  scholar  he 
was  bound  to  make  to  the  collegiate  authorities,  and 
the  fees  incurred  on  the  occasion  of  his  proceeding  to 
his  degrees  were  provided  by  his  patron.      It   fre- 
quently happened   in   inedia-val   times,  when   colleges 
were  far  less  richly  endowed  than  is  now  the  case, 
that  the  want  of  official  means  for  providing  such 
aids  as  exhibitions  and  bursaries  for  the  education  of 
]ioor  scholars  was  su])plied  by  private  charity,  and 
this  was,  indeed,  a  favourite  mode  of  benefaction  with 
rich  and  liberal-minded  folk.     The  special  college  at 
which  Villon  followed  the  courses  of  the  I'^niversity 
was  probably  not  the  College  de  Sorbonne,  notwith- 
standing its  immediate  neighbourhood  to  L'Hotel  de 
la  Porte  Rouge,  but  (and  this  I  am  inclined  to  sup- 
pose from  the  intimate  knowledge  he  displayed  of  its 
internal  arrangements  on  a  later  occasion)  the  Col- 
lege de  Navarre,  also  in  close  vicinity  to  the  Canon's 
residence.      It    is   possible   that    the   latter    intended 
Villon  for  the  church,  in  which  direction  lay  the  in- 
terest he  could  command:  if  so,  his  intentions  were 
completelv  frustrated,  for  Villon  never  (as  he  himself 
tells  us)  achieved  the  necessary  theological  degree: 
and  subsequent   events,  hardlv   to  be  r-''"d  beyond 
his  own  control,  completely  diverted  him   from  the 
pursuit  of  the  liberal  professions  and  caused  him  to 
become  the  wolf  that  watches  for  an  opportunitv  of 
spoiling  the   fold,   rather   than   the   shepherd   whose 
duty  it  is  to  guard  it.     The  interval  between  the  ma- 
triculation of  Villon  and  the  year  1455  is  an  almost 
complete  blank  for  us,  the  only  materials  we  have  to 
enable  us  to  follow  him  being  the  allusions  and  ref- 
erences to  be  gleaned  from  a  study  of  his  poems :  but 


24  INTRODUCTION 

it  was  certainly  durinjE^  this  period  of  his  life  that  he 
contracted  the  acquaintances,  disreputable  and  oth- 
erwise, which  exercised  so  decisive  an  influence  over 
his  future  history.  Amongst  those  belonging  to  the 
former  category  may  be  specially  cited  Rene  de  Mon- 
tigny,  Colin  de  Cayeulx,  Jehan  le  Loup,  Casin  Chollet 
and  Philip  Brunei,  Seigneur  de  Grigny,  all  scoundrels 
of  the  first  Avatcr;  and  for  women,  Huguette  du 
Hamel,  Abbess  of  Port  Royal  or  Pourras,  as  shining 
a  light  in  debauchery  as  any  of  his  male  friends,  and 
la  petite  Macee  of  Orleans,  his  first  mistress  ("avoit 
ma  ceincture,"  says  he),  whom  he  characterises  as 
"tres  mauvaise  ordure,"  a  thoroughly  bad  lot,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  obscure  rogues,  sharpers  and  women 
of  ill-fame  who  defile  in  so  endless  a  procession 
through  the  pages.  The  two  first  mentioned,  who 
were  fellow-students  of  our  poet,  were  indeed  rogues 
of  no  mean  eminence  and  appear  both  to  have  at- 
tained that  distinction  of  "dying  upright  in  the  sun" 
which  was  at  once  so  fascinating  and  so  terrible  a 
contingency  to  Villon.  Rene  or  Regnier  de  Montigny 
was  the  son  of  a  man  of  noble  family  at  Bourges,  who, 
possessing  certain  fiefs  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris 
and  a  charge  in  the  royal  household,  accompanied 
Charles  YII  to  his  capital,  on  its  reduction  in  1436. 
and  there  died  shortly  after,  leaving  his  family  in 
poor  circumstances.  Regnier,  who  was  two  years 
older  than  Villon,  early  distinguished  himself  by 
criminal  exploits,  pursuing  an  ever  ascending  scale 
of  gravity.  In  August  1452  he  was  banished  by  the 
Provost  of  Paris  for  a  disreputable  nocturnal  brawl, 
in  which  he  had  beaten  the  sergeants  of  the  watch 
before  the  hostelry  of  La  Grosse  Margot ;  whereupon 


INTRODUCTION  25 

he  betook  himself  to  the  ])rovinccs,  and  after  there 
oxercisini^  his  peculiar  talents  to  such  effect  as  to  be 
imprisoned  for  various  offences  at  Kouen,  Tours, 
Bordeaux  and  Poitiers,  he  once  more  ventured  to 
Paris,  where  he  speedily  again  came  under  the  notice 
of  the  authorities.  After  a  condemnation  for  the 
comparatively  trifling  offence  of  card-sharping,  he 
was  sentenced  to  death  as  an  accessory  to  a  murder 
committed  in  the  Cemetery  of  the  Innocents ;  but  for 
this  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  royal  pardon. 
This  narrow  escape,  however,  seems  to  have  produced 
no  salutary  effect  on  liim,  for  in  1457,  after  having 
escaped  punishment  for  various  offences  by  virtue 
of  his  quality  of  clerk,  of  which  he  availed  himself  to 
claim  protection  at  the  hands  of  the  Bishop  of  Paris, 
he  was  again  condcnmed  to  death  for  divers  sacri- 
legious thefts  from  the  Parisian  churches,  and  under 
this  condemnation,  notwithstanding  a  pardon  ob- 
tained by  family  influence,  which  appears  to  have 
been  quashed  for  irregularity,  it  seems  certain  that 
the  world  was  at  last  made  rid  of  him  by  that  "lon- 
gitudinal death"  he  had  so  richly  deserved ;  and  it  is 
even  possible  that  he  had  the  honour  of  being  the  first 
to  make  essay  of  a  new  gibbet  in  that  year  erected 
by  the  city  of  Paris  and  afterwards  known  as  le  Gibet 
de  Montigny. 

Colin  de  Cayeulx  was  no  less  eminent  as  a  scoun- 
drel. The  son  of  a  Parisian  locksmith,  he  made  use 
of  his  knowledge  of  his  father's  trade  to  become  one 
of  the  most  artistic  thieves  presented  by  the  criminal 
annals  of  Paris  ;  and  it  is  in  this  his  especial  quality 
of  picklock  that  we  shall  again  come  across  him  in 
connection  with  Villon.    After  a  long  career  of  crime. 


26  INTRODUCTION 

he  was  in  1460  condemned  to  death  as  (in  the  words 
of  the  Procurcur  du  Roi)  "an  incorrigible  thief,  pick- 
lock, marauder  and  sacrilegious  scoundrel,"  un- 
worthy to  enjoy  the  much-abused  benefit  of  clergy,  by 
which  he  and  rascals  of  his  kidney  had  so  often 
profited  to  escape  the  consequences  of  their  crimes. 
Nevertheless,  the  sentence  was,  for  reasons  unknown, 
not  carried  into  effect,  and  he  ap])ears  even  to  have 
been  set  at  liberty.  But  his  immunity  was  not  of  long 
duration  :  we  know  from  Villon  himself  that,  certainly 
not  later  than  the  next  year,  his  infamous  companion 
was  broken  on  the  wheel  for  "esbats"  or  gambols  (as 
he  euphemistically  styles  them),  the  least  of  which 
appears  to  have  been  ray)e  or  highway  robbery,  per- 
petrated at  the  villages  of  Rueil  near  Paris  and 
]\Iont])ip])eau  near  Orleans. 

Of  tlie  Seigneur  de  Grigny  we  know  little  but 
through  Villon  himself,  who  places  him  in  the  same 
category  as  Montigny  by  bequeathing  to  him  the 
right  of  slicltcr  in  various  ruins  around  Paris,  which 
were  then  the  favourite  resorts  and  strongholds  of 
the  choicest  thieves  and  vagabonds  of  the  time,  and 
speaks  of  him  in  such  terms  as  leave  little  doubt  that 
his  "lay"  or  criminal  specialty  was  the  coining  and 
uttering  of  false  money. 

Jehan  le  T.oup  and  Casin  Chollct  were  scoundrels 
of  a  lower  rank  or  "sneak-thieves,"  dealing  chiefly  in 
pett\'  thefts  of  jioultry  and  other  eatables :  the  for- 
mer appears  to  have  been  a  bargee  and  fisherman  in 
the  service  of  the  municipality  of  Paris,  by  whom  he 
was  employed  to  keep  the  moats  and  wet  ditches  of 
the  city  clean  and  free  from  weeds,  an  occuy)ation 
which  afforded  him  peculiar  facilities  for  marauding 


INTRODUCTION  27 

among  the  numerous  herds  of  ducks  and  geese  kept 
by  the  corporation  and  the  adjacent  commoners  of 
the  city  u])on  the  waters  whicli  he  traversed  in  liis 
dredging  boat ;  the  latter,  by  the  operation  of  that 
curious  law  of  reciprocal  attraction  between  the  y)o- 
lice  and  the  criminal  classes,  of  whose  prevalence  in 
countries  of  the  Latin  race  so  many  instances  exist, 
after  a  turbulent  early  life,  became  tipstaff  at  tlie 
Chatelet  ])rison  and  was  in  1405  de))rived  of  his  office, 
flogged  at  the  cart's  tail  and  imprisoned,  for  ]la^"ing 
spread  false  reports  (prol)ably  with  a  professional 
eye  to  plunder)  of  the  entry  into  Paris  of  th<>  Bur- 
gundians,  who  then  lay  leaguer  at  the  gates,  under 
the  command  of  Charles  the  Rash. 

The  Abbess  of  Port  Royal  is  another  curious  figure 
in  the  history  of  criminality.  Of  a  good  family  and 
holding  a  rich  abbacy,  she  early  distinguished  her- 
self by  leading  a  life  of  unbridled  licentiousness,  as- 
sociating with  all  the  lewd  characters  of  her  time, 
frequenting  houses  of  ill-fame  and  debauchci-y  in  male 
attire,  brawling  and  fighting  in  the  streets,  holding 
orgies  in  the  convent  itself,  which  remind  us  of  th'^ 
legends  of  Gilles  dc  Retz,  and  selling  the  nuns  under 
her  control  for  the  purpose  of  prostitution.  So  no- 
torious were  her  excesses  and  misconduct  in  Paris 
that  she  became  the  subject  of  a  satirical  popular 
song,  whose  author  she  caused  to  be  beaten  to  death. 
For  these  and  many  other  shameless  acts  she  was  at 
last  brought  to  account,  imprisoned  and  finallv,  after 
many  shifts  of  litigation,  definitively  de])rived  of  her 
abbey,  when  she  doubtless  sank  to  the  lowest  depths 
of  degradation.  By  reason  of  her  wanton  wav  of 
life,  the  people  appear  to  have  corrupted  her  title  and 


28  INTRODUCTION 

to  have  dubbed  her  Abbesse  de  Poilras  or  Shaven-poll, 
a  slan^  name  then  given  to  women  of  ill-fame  who  had 
been  pilloried  and  had  their  heads  shaved.  We  know 
from  Villon  himself  that  she  was  a  companion  of  his 
on  at  least  one  occasion,  and  it  was  probably  during 
one  of  her  excursions  in  man's  attire  that  she  and  the 
poet  in  1455  paid  their  famous  visit  to  Perrot  Girard, 
the  unfortunate  barber  of  Bourg  la  Reine,  near  Paris, 
and  lived  for  a  week  at  his  expense  and  that  of  his 
brood  of  sucking  pigs. 

However,  besides  these  disreputable  acquaintances, 
Villon  seems  to  have  become  intimate  with  many  per- 
sons to  whom  his  merry,  devil-may-care  disposition, 
and  perhaps  also  his  wit  and  genius,  made  him  accept- 
able whilst  he  and  they  were  young:  of  these  some 
were  fellow-students  of  his  own,  others  apparently 
people  of  better  rank  and  position,  those  "gracious 
gallants,"  "so  fair  of  fashion  and  of  show,  in  song 
and  speech  so  excellent,"  whom,  as  he  himself  tells 
us,  he  frequented  in  his  youth.  Some  of  these,  says 
he,  after  became  "masters  and  lords  and  great  of 
grace :"  and  it  was  no  doubt  to  the  kindly  remem- 
brance which  these  latter  cherished  of  the  jollv,  bril- 
liant companion  of  their  youth  that  he  owed  some- 
thing of  his  comparative  immunity  from  punishment 
for  the  numberless  faults  and  follies  which  he  com- 
mitted at  a  subsequent  and  less  favoured  period.  Of 
these  (M.  Longnon  has  discovered  for  us)  were  Mar- 
tin Bellefaye,  I>ord  of  Ferrieres  en  Brie,  afterwards 
Advocate  of  the  Chatclet  and  Lieutcnant-Criminel 
of  the  Provost  of  Paris  ;  Pierre  Basanicr,  Notary  and 
afterwards  Clerc-Criminel  at  the  CliAtelot:  Pierre 
Blaru,  Guillaume  Charriau,  Robert  Valee,  Thomas 


INTRODUCTION  29 

Tricot,  all  men  of  sonu'  jiii])ortanc'e  in  law  or  trade 
at  Paris;  and  (])o.ssibly  tliioii^h  his  son)  Robert 
d'Kstoutevillc,  Provost  of  Paris,  to  whom  Villon,  in 
his  student-days,  dedicated  the  curious  ballad  on  the 
subject  of  his  marria^fe  with  Ambroise  dc  Lore.  It  is 
by  no  means  impossible  that  from  this  time  of  |)leas- 
ant  companionship  and  com]iarative  respectability 
dates  Villon's  connection  with  the  royal  poet,  Charles 
d'Orleans  ;  and  that  he  may  also  have  became  known 
to  the  then  Dauj)hin  (afterwards  Louis  XI)  is  al- 
most equally  likely,  in  view  of  the  habits  of  familiar 
intercourse  of  the  latter  with  the  bursfhers  and  clerks 
of  Paris  and  his  well-known  love  of  and  taste  for 
literature.  It  appears  certain  that  Louis  had  some 
knowledge  of  and  liking  for  A'illon,  founded  probably 
on  admiration  of  his  wit  and  genius;  and  it  was  as- 
suredly owing  to  this,  and  not  to  any  general  amnesty 
de  joyeux  avenement,  that  the  })oct  owed  his  last 
remission  of  the  capital  penalty  at  the  hands  of  so 
severe  a  monarch  as  the  titular  author  of  the  "Cent 
Nouvelles  Nouvelles,"  for  which  he  shows  (in  the 
Greater  Testament)  so  special  and  personal  a  grati- 
tude as  almost  to  preclude  the  idea  of  its  having  been 
granted  otherwise  than  as  a  matter  of  peculiar  and 
personal  favour. 

This  early  period  of  Villon's  life,  extending  at  least 
up  to  his  twenty-fourth  year,  appears  to  have  been 
free  from  crime  or  misconduct  of  any  very  gross 
character.  Although  he  himself  laments  that  he  had 
neglected  to  study  in  his  youth,  whereby  he  might 
have  slept  warm  in  his  old  age,  and  expresslv  states 
that  he  fled  from  school  as  bird  from  cage,  wo  have 
seen  that,  if  he  did  not  achieve  the  presumable  object 


80  INTRODUCTION 

of  his  college  career,  namely  the  Maitrisc  or  Doctor- 
ate of  Theology,  he  yet  paid  sufficient  attention  to 
his  studies  to  enable  him  to  acquire  the  title  of  Master 
of  Arts,  and  it  would  a}>pear  that  he  had  even  been 
presented  to  what  he  calls  a  simple-tonsure  chapelry, 
possibly  one  of  the  numerous  quasi-sinecure  offices 
connected  with  the  churches  or  ecclesiastical  machin- 
ery of  the  diocese  of  Paris,  which  were  reserved  as 
prizes  for  the  more  industrious  and  deserving  schol- 
ars. M.  Longnon  is  of  opinion  that  he  eked  out  the 
small  revenue  of  this  office  by  taking  pupils,  and 
amongst  them  the  three  poor  orphans  to  whom  he  so 
frequently  alludes ;  but  I  confess  I  see  no  ground  for 
this  supposition  with  regard  to  the  latter,  of  whom  he 
always  speaks  in  such  terms  as  to  lead  us  to  suppose 
them  to  have  been  actually  foundlings  dependent 
wholly  upon  his  bounty.  In  1456  he  describes  thorn 
as  "three  little  children  all  bare,  poor,  unprovided 
or])hans,  shoeless  and  helpless,  naked  as  a  worm," 
and  makes  provision  for  their  entertainment  for  at 
least  one  winter :  and  I  am  unable,  therefore,  to  dis- 
cover how  M.  Longnon  justifies  his  hypothesis  that 
they  were  young  men  of  good  or  well-to-do  families 
confided  to  Villon's  tuition.  On  the  other  hand  it  is 
by  no  means  im])ossible  that  some  of  the  numerous 
unidentified  persons  mentioned  in  the  Testaments  may 
have  been  pupils  of  the  poet  at  the  period  of  which  I 
speak.  At  all  events,  howcA^er  he  may  have  earned 
his  living,  it  seems  certain  that  up  to  the  early  part 
of  the  year  1455  he  committed  no  act  which  brought 
him  under  the  unfavourable  notice  of  the  poh'ce  :  and 
we  find,  indeed,  in  a  subsequent  document  under  the 
royal  seal,  his  assertion,  that  "he  had  till  then  well 


INTRODUCTION  31 

and  honourably  governed  himself,  without  having 
been  attaint,  reproved  or  coiivieted  of  any  ill  case, 
blame  or  reproach,"  accepted  without  question,  as 
would  certainly  not  have  been  the  case  had  he  been 
previously  unfavourably  known  to  the  authorities. 
Yet  it  is  evident,  both  on  his  own  showing  and  on  the 
authority  of  popular  report,  especially  of  the  curi- 
ous collection  of  anecdotes  \v  verse  known  as  "TiCS 
Repues  Franches"  or  ''Free  Feeds"  (of  whicli  ho  was 
the  hero,  not  the  author,  and  in  which  one  phase  of 
his  many-sided  character  and  career  is  recorded), 
that  his  life  during  this  interval,  if  not  actually 
trenching  u})on  the  limits  of  strictly  punishable  of- 
fences, was  vet  one  of  sufficiently  disreputable  char- 
acter and  marked  by  such  license  and  misconduct 
as  would  assuredly,  in  more  settled  and  law-abiding 
times,  have  early  brought  his  career  to  a  disgraceful 
close.  He  himself  tells  us  that  he  lived  more  merrily 
than  most  in  his  youth ;  and  we  need  only  to  refer  to 
the  remarkable  list  of  wine-shops,  rogues  and  women 
of  ill-fame  with  which  he  shows  so  familiar  an  ac- 
quaintance, to  satisfy  ourselves  that  much  of  his  time 
must  have  been  spent  in  debauchery  and  wantonness 
of  the  most  uncompromising  character.  It  is  not 
likely  that  the  su])j)lies  of  money  he  could  have  ob- 
tained from  legitimate  sources,  such  as  the  kiiKlness 
of  Guillaume  de  Villon,  the  practice  of  tuition  and 
the  offices  he  may  have  gained  as  prizes  during  his 
scholastic  career,  would  have  sufficed  for  the  j)rodigal 
expenditure  naturally  consequent  upon  his  depraved 
tastes.  On  his  OAvn  showing,  he  ])ossesscd  a  happy 
combination  of  most  of  the  vices  which  lead  a  man  to 
fling  away  his  life  in  the  quagmires  of  dissipation : — 


32  INTRODUCTION 

amorous,  gluttonous,  a  drunkard,  a  spendthrift  and  a 
gambler, — no  thought  of  future  consequences  seems 
ever  to  have  been  allowed  to  intervene  between  him 
and  the  satisfaction  of  his  debased  desires ;  and  it 
was  only  in  the  intervals  of  disaster  and  depression 
(naturally  of  frequent  occurrence  in  such  a  life)  that 
the  better  nature  of  the  man  breaks  out  in  notes  of 
bitter  anguish  and  heartfelt  sorrow,  of  which  it  is 
difficult  to  doubt  the  genuineness,  although  the  mer- 
curial humour  of  the  poet  quickly  allows  them  to 
merge  into  mocking  cadences  of  biting  satire  and 
scornful  merriment. 

It  was  therefore  to  provide  for  the  satisfaction  of 
his  inclinations  towards  debauchery  that  he  became 
gradually  entangled  in  complications  of  bad  company 
and  questionable  dealings  which  led  him  step  by  step 
to  that  maze  of  crime  and  disaster  in  which  his  whole 
after-life  was  wrecked.  In  "Les  Repues  Franches" 
— a  work  not  published  till  long  after  his  death, 
whose  assertions,  apparently  founded  upon  popular 
tradition  (for  Villon,  quickly  as  his  memory  faded 
after  the  middle  of  the  next  century,  seems  to  have 
been  a  prominent  and  favourite  personality  among 
his  contemporaries  of  Paris)  are  amply  endorsed  by 
the  confessions  of  the  poet  himself — we  find  him  rep- 
resented as  the  head  of  a  band  of  scholars,  poor  clerks 
and  beggars,  "learning  at  others'  expense,"  all  "gal- 
lants with  sleeveless  pourpoints,"  "having  perpetual 
occasions  for  gratuitous  feeds,  both  winter  and 
summer,"  who  are  classed  under  the  generic  title  of 
"Les  Sujets  Francois  Villon,"  and  into  whoso  mouth 
the  author  puts  this  admirable  dogma  of  despotic 
equality — worthy  of  that  hero  of  our  own  times,  the 


INTRODUCTION  33 

iritish  working-man  himself — "Whoso  hath  notiiing 
t  behooves  that  he  fare  better  tlian  anyone  else."  "Le 
)on    Maitre    Francois    Villon"    comforts    his    "com- 
)aignons,"  who  are  described  as  not  being  worth  two 
ound  onions,  with  the  assurance  that  they  shall  want 
or  nothing,  but  shall  ])resently  have  bread,  wine  and 
oast-meat  a  grant  fojfson,  and  j)roceeds  to  practise 
I    series    of    tricks    after    the    manner    of    Till    Eu- 
enspiegel,    by    which,    chiefly    through    the    persua- 
iveness  of  his  honeyed  tongue,  he  succeeds  in  procur- 
n^;  them  wherewithal  to  make  merry  and  enjoy  great 
^ood  cheer.     Provided  with  stolen  bread,  fish,  meat 
md  other  victual  to  their  hearts'  desire,  the  jolly 
coundrels  remember  that  they  owe  it  as  a  duty  to 
hemselves  to  get  drunk  and  that  if  they  would  fain 
irrive   at   that   desirable   consummation,   they   must 
leeds  furnish  themselves  with  liquor  at  some  one  else's 
expense.     Master  Francois  is  equal  to  the  occasion ; 
aking  two  pitchers  of  precisely  similar  appearance, 
)ne  filled  with  fair  water  and  the  other  empty,  he  re- 
pairs   to   the    celebrated   tavern    of   the    Fir    Apple, 
■ntuate  in  the  Rue  dc  la  Juiverie,  (of  which  and  it<; 
andlord,  Robin  Turgis,  mention  is  so  often  made  in 
A'illon's    verse),    and    requests    to    have    the    empty 
)itchcr  filled  with  the  best  of  their  white  wine.     This 
icing  done,  in  a  twinkling  the  accomplished  sharper 
"hanges  the  pitchers  and  pretending  to  examine  the 
•ontents,  asks  the  tapster  what  kind  of  wine  ho  has 
j^iven  him,  to  which  he  replies  that  it  is  white  wine  of 
fBaifrneux.    "Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?"  cries  Villon. 
"Take  hack  your  rubbish.     T  asked  for  good  white 
.vine  of  Beaune  and  will  have  none  other."     So  say- 
ng,  he  empties  the  pitcher  of  water  into  the  cask  of 


31  INTRODUCTION 

Baigncux  wine — the  tapster  of  course  supposing  it 
to  be  the  liquor  with  which  he  had  just  served  him — 
and  makes  off,  in  triumph,  Avith  the  pitclierful  of 
white  wine,  which  he  has  thus  obtained  at  the  unlucky 
vintner's  expense.  The  landlord  of  the  Fir  Apple 
seems  to  have  been  a  favourite  subject  for  the  ros^uish 
tricks  of  the  poet,  who  confesses  in  his  Greater  Testa- 
ment that  he  had  stolen  from  him  fourteen  hogsheads 
of  white  wine  of  Aulnis  and  adds  insult  to  injury  by 
offering  to  pay  him,  if  he  w^ill  come  to  him,  but  (says 
he  slily)  "if  he  find  out  my  lodging,  he'll  be  wiser  than 
any  wizard."  This  colossal  theft  of  wine  was  prob- 
ably perpetrated  on  a  cartload  on  its  way  to  Turgis, 
and  perhaps  furnished  forth  the  great  Repue 
Franche  alluded  to  in  Villon's  Seemly  Lesson  to  the 
Wastrils  or  Good-for-Noughts,  apropos  of  which  he 
so  pathetically  laments  that  even  a  load  of  wine  is 
drunk  out  at  last,  "by  fire  in  winter  or  woods  in  sum- 
mer." 

From  tricks  of  this  kind,  devoted  to  obtaining  the 
materials  for  those  orgies  in  which  his  soul  delighted, 
there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  did  not  lightlv 
pass  to  others  more  serious  or  that  he  shrank  from 
the  employment  of  more  criminal  means  of  obtaining 
the  money  which  was  equally  necessary  for  the  indul- 
gence of  the  licentious  humours  of  himself  and  his 
companions.  In  the  words  of  the  anonymous  author 
of  "Les  Repues  Franches,"  "He  was  the  nursing 
mother  of  those  who  had  no  money;  in  swindling 
behind  and  before  he  was  a  most  diligent  man."  So 
celebrated  was  he,  indeed,  as  a  man  of  expedients, 
that  he  attained  the  rare  honour  of  becoming  a  popu- 
lar type  and  the  word  "villonnerie"  was  long  used 


INTRODUCTION  35 

among  the  lower  classes  of  Paris  to  describe  sucH 
sharping  jiractices  as  were  traditionally  attributed  to 
\'ilIon  as  the  great  master  of  the  art :  even  as  from 
the  later  roguish  type  of  Till  Eulenspiegel,  GalUce 
T^'lospiegle  (many  of  the  traditional  stories  of  whose 
rogueries  are  founded  upon  Villon's  exploits),  is  de- 
rived the  still  extant  word  "espieglerie." 

Villon,  indeed,  appears  to  have  at  once  attained  the 
sinnmit  of  his  roguish  profession  :  ready  of  wit,  elo- 
quent of  tongue,  he  seems  to  have  turned  all  the  re- 
sources of  his  vivid  poetical  imagination  to  the  serv- 
ice of  his  debauched  desires  and  so  generally  was  his 
superiority  admitted  that,  when  he  afterwards  more 
seriously  adopted  the  profession  of  "hook  and  crook," 
he  seems  to  have  been  at  once  recognised  by  the 
knights  of  the  road  and  the  prison  as,  if  not  their 
actual  chief,  at  least  the  directing  and  devising  head, 
upon  whose  ingenious  and  methodical  ordering  was 
dependent  the  success  of  their  more  important  oper- 
ations. 

At  this  period,  in  all  probability,  came  into  action 
another  personage,  whose  influence  seems  never  to 
have  ceased  to  affect  Villon's  life  and  who  (if  we  may 
trust  to  his  own  oft-repeated  asseverations)  was 
mainly  responsible  for  his  ill-directed  and  untimely- 
ended  career.  This  was  a  young  lady  named  Cather- 
ine de  Vaucelles  or  Vaucel  and  (according  to  M. 
r.ongnon's  plausible  conjecture)  either  the  niece  or 
cousin  of  one  of  the  Canons  of  St.  Benoit,  Pierre  de 
Vaucel,  who  occupied  a  house  in  the  cloister,  within 
a  door  or  two  of  I.'Hotel  de  la  Porte  Rouge.  Her 
family  inhabited  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  in  which  stood 
the  Church  of  St.  Benoit :  and  it  is  very  probable 


36  INTRODT^CTION 

that  she  may  have  altogether  resided  with  her  uncle 
for  the  purpose  of  ordering  his  household,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  custom  of  general  prevalence  among 
ecclesiastics,  on  whom  celibacy  was  enforced, — or 
that  through  her  connection  with  the  cloister  was 
afforded  to  Villon  the  opportunity  of  forming  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  her,  which  speedily  de- 
veloped into  courtship.  Catherine  de  Vaucelles  would 
appear  (if  we  may  accept  Villon's  designation  of  her 
as  a  demoiselle)  to  have  been  a  young  lady  of  good 
or  at  least  respectable  family  and  it  would  seem  also 
that  she  was  a  finished  coquette.  Throughout  the 
Avhole  of  Villon's  verse  the  remembrance  of  the  one 
chaste  and  real  love  of  his  life  is  ever  present  and  he 
is  fertile  in  invective  against  the  cruelty  and  infidelity 
of  his  mistress.  According  to  his  own  account,  how- 
ever, the  love  seems  to  have  been  entirely  on  his  side ; 
for,  although  she  amused  him  by  feigned  kindness 
and  unimportant  concessions,  he  himself  allows  that 
she  never  gave  him  any  sufficient  reason  to  hope,  re- 
proaching her  bitterly  for  not  having  at  first  told 
him  her  true  intent,  in  which  case  he  would  have  en- 
forced himself  to  break  tjie  ties  that  bound  him  to 
her.  She  appears,  indeed,  to  have  taken  delight  in 
making  mock  of  him  and  playing  with  his  affections ; 
but,  often  as  he  bethought  himself  to  renounce  his 
unhappy  attachment,  to 

"Resign  and  be  at  peace," 

he  seems,  with  the  true  temper  of  a  lover,  to  have 
always  returned  before  long  to  his  vainly-caressed 
hope.  No  assertion  does  he  more  frequently  repeat 
than  that  this  his  early  love  was  the  cause  of  all  his 


INTRODUCTION  37 

tnisfortuncs  and  of  his  untimely  death.     "I  die  a  mar- 
tyr  to   love,"  he  says,   "enrolled   among   the   saints 
thereof;"  and  the  expression  of  his  anguish  is  often 
so  y)oignant  that  we  can  hardly  refuse  to  believe  in 
the  reality  of  his  passion.     Nevertheless,  he  does  not 
accuse   the   girl    of   having   favoured    others    at   his 
expense.     "Though  T  never  got  a  spark  of  hope  from 
her,"  he  says,  "I  know  not  nor  care  if  she  he  as  harsh 
to  others  as  to  me ;"  and  indeed  he  seems  to  imply 
that  she  was  too  fond  of  money  to  he  accessible  to 
any  other  passion.     One  of  the  persons  mentioned  in 
the  poems  was  perhaps  a  rival  of  his.  as  he  tells  us, 
in  his  Ballad  of  Light  Loves,  that  a  certain  Noe  or 
Noel   was  present  when  he   (Villon)    was  beaten    as 
washerwomen  beat  clothes  by  the  river,  all  naked,  and 
that  on  account  of  the  aforesaid  Catherine  de  Vau- 
celles :  and  as  he  says  "Noel  was  the  third  who  was 
there,"  assuming  the  other  person  present  to  have 
been  the  lady,  we  may  fairly  suppose  that  Noel  was  a 
more   favoured   lover  of  Catherine's,  by  whom  was 
administered   to   Villon   the   correction    of  which   be 
speaks   so  bitterly,  probably  on   the   occasion   of  a 
sham  rendezvous,  in  the  nature  of  a  trap,  devised  by 
Catherine  to  get  rid  of  an  importunate  lover.     This 
presumption  is  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  in  the 
Lesser  Testament,  speaking  of  his  unhappy  love  af- 
fair, he  says,  "Other  than  I,  who  is  younger  and  can 
rattle  more  coin,  is  in  favour  with  her  :"*  and  that 
,  in   the  Greater  Testament  he  bequeaths   to  Noel  le 
Jolys  (who  may  fairly  be  taken  to  be  the  Noe  men- 
tioned above)  the  unpleasant  legacy  of  two  hundred 


*  T  quote  a  variant  of  Oct.  vii. 


38  INTRODUCTION 

and  twenty  strokes,  to  be  handsomely  laid  on  with 
a  handful  of  green  osier  rods  by  Maitre  Henriot,  the 
executioner  of  Paris.  It  is  possible  that  Catherine 
may,  for  a  while,  have  encouraged  Villon  out  of 
cupidity,  and  after  getting  all  she  could  out  of  him. 
have  thrown  him  off  for  a  better-furnished  admirer ; 
hut  of  this  we  find  no  assertion  in  his  poems,  al- 
though, if  we  may  believe  in  the  authenticity  of 
certain  pieces  attributed  to  him  in  the  "Jardin  do 
Plaisance,"  he  accuses  her  of  compelling  him  to  be 
always  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  purchase  her 
good  graces,  now  asking  for  a  velvet  gown  and  now 
for  "high  headgear"  (haulfs  otours)  or  the  like 
costly  articles  of  dress;  and  (in  a  ballad  coming 
under  the  same  category)  he  speaks  of  her  "corps 
tant  vicieux"  and  reproaches  her  with  having  sold 
him  her  favours  for  twenty  rose-crowns  and  having, 
after  draining  him  dry,  transferred  her  interested 
affections  to  a  hideous  but  rich  old  man,  although 
(says  he)  "I  was  so  devoted  to  her,  that  had  she 
asked  m.e  to  give  her  the  moon,  I  had  essayed  to  scale 
the  heavens."  However,  these  pieces  seem  to  be 
wrongly  assigned  to  Villon ;  and  in  despite  of  the 
epithet,  "foul  wanton,"  applied  to  her,  probably  in 
a  passing  fit  of  irritability  and  jealousy, — such  as 
at  times  overcomes  the  most  respectful  and  devoted 
of  unrequited  lovers, — all  the  authentic  evidence  we 
possess  points  to  the  conclusion  that  the  young  lady 
was  guilty  of  no  serious  misconduct  towards  Villon 
beyond  that  ordinary  coquetry  and  love  of  admira- 
tion, and  perhaps  of  amusement,  which  may  have  led 
her  to  give  some  passing  encouragement  to  the  merry, 
witty  poet  of  the  early  days ;  and  this  hypothesis  he 


INTRODUCTION  39 

himself  confirms  by  the  pure  and  beautiful  ballad 
which  he  dedicates  to  her,  prefacing  it,  however,  with 
the  delicately  deprecatory  qualification  that  he  had 
composed  it  to  acquit  himself  towards  Love  rather 
than  her, — a  ballad  which  breathes  the  chastest  and 
most  romantic  spirit  of  wistful  love  and  anticipates 
for  us  Ronsard,  as  he  pictures  his  lady  in  her  old  age, 
sitting  with  her  maidens  at  the  veillee  and  proudly 
recalling  to  herself  and  her  companions  that  she  had 
been  celebrated  by  her  poet-lover  "du  temps  que 
jVtais  belle." 

True  and  permanent  as  was  the  love  of  Villon  for 
Catherine,  it  does  not  seem  to  have  restrained  him 
from  the  frequentation  of  those  light  o'  loves,  whose 
names  so  jostle  each  other  in  his  pages.  T.a  Belle 
Heaulmierc,  Blanche  the  Slippermaker,  Guillemette 
the  Upholsteress,  Macee  of  Orleans.  Katherinc  the 
Spurmaker,  Denise,  Jacqueline,  Perrette,  Isabeau, 
Marion  the  Statue,  tall  Jehanne  of  Brittany,  a  cloud 
of  lorettes  and  grisettes,  trip  and  chatter  through  his 
reminiscences ;  and  with  two  of  them,  Jehanneton  la 
Chaperonniere  and  La  Grosse  Margot,  he  appears  to 
have  formed  permanent  connections.  No  doubt  the 
femmcx  folles  de  leur  corps,  with  whom  Paris  has  ever 
abounded,  were  not  wanting  at  the  fantastic  revels 
carried  on  by  our  Bohemian  and  his  band  of  scape- 
graces in  the  ruins  of  Nygeon,  Billy  and  Bicetre.  or 
the  woods  to  be  met  with  at  a  bowshot  in  every  direc- 
tion round  the  Paris  of  his  time.  "Ill  cat  to  ill  rat," 
as  he  himself  says;  the  feminine  element  was  hardlv 
likely  to  be  wanting  for  the  completion  of  the  perfect 
disreputable  harmony  of  his  surroundings. 


40  INTRODUCTION 

III 

This  early  period  of  comparative  innocence,  or  at 
least  obscurity,  was  now  drawing  to  a  close  and  its 
conclusion  was  marked  for  Villon  by  a  disaster  which 
in  all  probability  arose  from  his  connection  with 
Catherine  de  Vaucelles  and  which  fell  like  a  thunder- 
bolt on  the  careless  merriment  of  his  life.  On  the 
evenino^  of  the  5th  June  1455,  the  day  of  the  Fete- 
Dieu,  Villon  was  seated  on  a  stone  bench  under  the 
clock-tower  of  the  Church  of  St.  Benoit,  in  the  Rue 
St.  Jacques,  in  company  with  a  priest  called  Gille.s 
and  the  girl  Isabeaii  above  mentioned  (who  is  noted 
in  the  Greater  Testament  as  making  constant  use  of 
a  particular  phrase,  "Enne"  or  "Is  it  not.'^"),*  with 
whom  he  had  supped  and  sallied  out  at  about  nine 
o'clock  to  enjoy  the  coolness  of  the  night  air.  As 
they  sat  talking,  there  came  up  to  them  a  priest  called 
Phillippe  Chermoye  or  Sermoise  and  a  friend  of  his 
named  Jehan  le  Merdi,  a  graduate  of  the  University. 
Chermoye.  who  was  probably  a  rival  of  Villon  for  the 
good  graces  of  Catherine  de  Vaucelles,  appeared  in 
a  furious  state  of  exasperation  against  the  poet  and 
swaggered  up  to  him,  exclaiming,  "So  I  have  found 
you  at  last !"  Villon  rose  and  courteously  offered  him 
room  to  sit  down ;  but  the  other  pushed  him  rudely 
back  into  hi?  place,  saying,  "T  warrant  I'll  anger 
you !"  To  which  the  poet  replied,  "WTiy  do  you  ac- 
cost me  thus  angrily.  Master  Philip?     What  harm 


*  Lat.      Anne?      Isabeau    would    probably    have    used    the 
French  equivalent  of  "Ain't  it?" 


INTRODUCTION  41 

have  I  done  you?  \\niat  is  your  will  of  me?"  and 
would  have  retired  into  the  cloister  for  safety ;  but 
Chermoye,  pursuing  him  to  the  ^ate  of  the  close,  drew 
a  great  rapier  from  under  his  gown  and  smote  him 
grievously  on  the  lower  part  of  the  face,  slitting  his 
undcrlip  and  causing  great  effusion  of  blood.  At  this 
Gilles  and  Isabeau  took  the  alarm  and  apparently 
fearing  to  be  involved  in  the  affray,  made  off,  leaving 
Villon  alone  and  unsupported.  Maddened  b}'  the 
pain  of  his  wound  and  by  the  blood  with  which  he 
felt  himself  covered,  the  latter  drew  a  short  sword 
that  he  carried  under  his  Avalking  cloak  and  in  en- 
deavouring to  defend  himself,  wounded  his  aggressor 
in  the  groin,  without  being  at  the  time  aware  of  what 
he  had  done.  At  this  juncture  Jehan  le  Merdi  came 
up  and  seeing  his  friend  wounded,  crept  treacherously 
behind  Villon  and  caught  away  his  sword.  Finding 
himself  defenceless  against  Chermoye,  who  persisted 
in  loading  him  with  abuse  and  sought  to  give  him  the 
finishing  stroke  with  his  long  sword,  the  wretched 
Francois  looked  about  for  some  means  of  defence  and 
seeing  a  big  stone  at  his  feet,  snatched  it  up  and 
flung  it  in  the  priest's  face  with  such  force  and  pre- 
cision that  the  latter  fell  to  the  ground  insensible. 
Villon  immediately  went  off  to  get  his  wounds  dressed 
by  a  barber  named  Fouquet,  who.  in  accordance  with 
the  police  regulations  affecting  such  cases,  demanded 
of  him  his  name  and  that  of  his  assailant.  To  him 
Villon  accordingly  related  the  whole  affair,  giving 
his  own  name  as  IMichel  Mouton  and  stating  his  in- 
tention on  the  morrow  to  procure  Chermoye's  arrest 
for  the  unprovoked  assault.     Meantime,  some  pas- 


42  INTRODUCTION 

sers-b}'  found  the  priest  l.vin£y  unconscious  on  the 
pavement  of  the  cloister,  with  his  drawn  sword  in  hi^ 
hand,  and  carried  him  into  one  of  the  houses  in  the 
close,  where  his  wounds  were  dressed  and  whence  bo 
was  next  day  transferred  to  the  Hospital  of  L'Hotel 
Dieu,  where  on  the  Saturday  followinc^  he  died ;  the 
words  of  the  record  ("pour  faute  de  bon  ^ouverne- 
ment  ou  autrement")  leaving  it  doubtful  whether  his 
death  was  not  rather  due  to  unskilful  treatment  than 
to  his  actual  wounds.  Before  his  death,  however,  he 
had  been  visited  and  examined  by  one  of  the  appari- 
tors of  the  Chatelet,  to  whom  he  related  the  whole 
affair,  expressing  a  wish  that  no  proceedings  should 
be  taken  against  Villon,  to  whom,  he  said,  he  forgave 
his  death,  "by  reason  of  certain  causes  moving  him 
thereunto ;"  words  which  seem  to  tell  strongly  in 
favour  of  the  hypothesis  that  the  quarrel  bore  some 
relation  to  Catherine  de  Vaucelles.  However,  Villon 
was  summoned  before  the  ChAtolet  Court  to  answer 
for  Chermoye's  death,  but  (as  the  record  says)  "fear- 
ing rigour  of  justice,"  he  had  availed  himself  of  the 
interval  to  take  to  flight  and  appears  to  have  left 
Paris.  No  record  of  the  proceedings  ugainst  him 
appears  to  be  extant,  but  the  probabilities  point  to 
his  having  been  convicted  in  his  absence  and  con- 
demned, in  default,  to  banishment  from  the  kingdom. 
However,  his  exile  did  not  last  long.  In  January 
1456  he  presented  a  petition  to  the  Crown,  setting 
forth  that  up  to  the  time  of  the  brawl  "he  had  been 
known  as  a  man  of  good  life  and  renown  and  honest 
conversation  and  had  in  all  things  well  and  honour- 
ably governed  himself,  without  having  been  attaint, 
reproved  or  convicted  of  any  other  ill  case,  blame  or 


iX'J'RODUCTION  43 

!"i|)i-(»;ich  wlititsoever,"  and  praying  the  kin<^,  in  view 
of  tliis  and  of  tlie  fact  tliat  tlie  dead  man  had  dejjre- 
cated  any  proceeding's  against  his  adversary,  to  im- 
part to  him  his  grace  and  mercy  in  tlie  remission  of 
the  sentence.  Thanks,  no  doubt,  to  the  assistance  of 
^'illon's  powerful  friends,  as  well  as  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  which  ajipears  to  have  been  an 
unusually  clear  one  of  justifiable  homicide  in  self- 
defence,  reflecting  no  blame  whatever  on  the  poet, 
letters  of  grace  and  remission  were  in  the  same  month 
accorded  to  him  by  Charles  VII  and  he  presently 
returned  to  Paris,  where  he  perhaps  endeavoured  to 
resume  his  former  life  of  comj)arative  respectability; 
at  all  events,  we  may  be  sure  that  he  so  far  resumed 
liis  old  habits  as  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with 
Catherine  de  Vaucelles. 

The  six  months  of  his  banishment,  which  had  in 
all  ])robability  been  passed  in  the  company  of  the 
thieves  and  vagabonds  who  infested  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Paris,  had,  however,  sufficed  hopelessly  to 
compromise  his  life.  It  is  imy>ossible  to  suppose  that 
he  can,  in  the  interval,  have  supported  himself  by 
any  honest  means :  and  it  is  clearly  to  this  period  that 
may  be  traced  his  definitive  affiliation  to  the  band  or 
bands  of  robbers  of  which  Guy  Tabarie,  Petit  Jean, 
Colin  de  Cayeulx  and  Regnier  de  ^lontigny  were  the 
most  distinguished  ornaments  and  of  which  he  him- 
self was  destined  to  become  an  important  member.  '^ 


[*Thc  researches  of  M.  Marcel  Sclnvob  have  brought  to 
light  the  fact  that  the  language,  hitherto  unidentificrl,  in 
which  the  "Jargon"  or  "Jobelin"  of  Villon  is  written,  was  a 
ihiovv's'  slang  or  lingo  peculiar;  to  a  notable  association  of 
robbers  and  outlaws  known  as  the  Coquillarts  or  Compagnons 
de  la  Coquillc.  a  title  probably  derived  from  the  circumstance 
that  the  Company  was  largely  recruited  from  the  swarms  of 


44  INTRODUCTION 

It  is  to  this  time  of  need  that  Villon  himself  assigns 
the  raid  upon  the  barber  of  Bourg-la-Reine,  in  com- 
pany with  Huguette  du  Hamel ;  and  excursions  of 
this  kind  were  doubtless  amongst  the  least  reprehen- 
sible of  his  expedients  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 
On  his  return  to  Paris,  he  appears  to  have  been  badly 
received  by  his  lady-love  and  in  despair  quickly  re- 
verted to  the  habits  of  criminality  which  had  now 
obtained  a  firm  hold  on  him.  We  have  it,  on  un- 
doubted authority,  that  during  the  eleven  months 
which  followed  his  return  to  Paris  he  was  concerned 
in  three  robberies  committed  or  attempted  by  his 
band, — namely,  a  burglary  perpetrated  on  the  house 
of  a  priest  called  Guillaume  Coiffier,  by  which  they 
netted  five  or  six  hundred  gold  crowns ;  an  attempt 
(frustrated  by  the  vigilance  of  a  dog)  to  steal  the 
sacred  vessels  from  the  Church  of  St.  Maturin ;  and 
the  breaking  open  of  the  treasury  of  the  College  de 
Navarre,  whence  they  stole  another  five  or  six  hun- 
dred gold  crowns,  thanks  to  the  intimate  knowledge 
of  its  interior  acquired  by  Villon  during  his  scholastic 
career  and  to  the  lock-picking  talents  of  Colin  de 
Cayeulx.    These  were  doubtless  but  a  few  of  the  oper- 


false  palmers  or  professional  visitants  to  various  shrines  and 
especially  to  that  of  St.  James  of  Compostella  (whose  em- 
blem was  the  scallop  on  cockleshell  habitually  worn  in  the 
hat  as  a  token  of  accomplishment  of  the  pilgrimage  to  his 
shrine — hence  the  term  coquillart  or  cockleshell  wearer  vul- 
garly applied  to  the  palmer — )  who  availed  themselves  of  the 
quasi-sacred  character  of  the  pilgrim  to  rob  and  murder  with 
impunity  on  all  the  high  roads  of  mediaeval  France.  Of  this 
lawless  association  Villon's  comrades  Montigny  and  Cayeulx 
are  known  to  have  formed  part  and  the  poet  himself  doubt- 
less became  affiliated  to  the  Company  during  his  six  months 
of  exile.  The  generic  name  (Coquillarts)  of  the  Companions 
of  the  Cockleshell  figures  in  the  poems  composing  the 
"Jargon."  which  were  doubtless  written  expressly  for  the 
members  of  the  band.] 


INTRODUCTION  45 

ations  undertaken  by  tlit-  band  of  desperadoes  witb 
wliom  \'illon  was  now  inseparably  associated :  and  as 
they  rejoi'/ed  in  such  accomplices  as  a  goldsmith, 
who  made  them  false  keys  and  melted  down  for  them 
their  purchase  or  booty,  when  it  assumed  the  incon- 
venient form  of  holy  or  other  vessels,  and  in  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Cloister  of  Notre  Dame,  of  which 
sanctuary  they  seem  to  have  made  their  headquar- 
ters, besides  other  refuges,  to  which  tliey  could  flee 
when  hard  pressed,  in  the  houses  of  priests  and  clerks, 
of  whom  several  seem  to  have  been  affiliated  to  the 
band,  the  poet  and  his  companions  a}i])ear  for  a 
while  to  have  pursued  their  hazardous  ])rofession  to 
highly  lucrative  account.  The  successful  attempt 
upon  the  College  de  Navarre  took  ])lace  shortly  be- 
fore Christmas  1456  and  almost  immediately  after- 
wards the  poet,  who  seems  to  have  thrown  himself 
heai"t  and  soul  into  his  new  vocation  and  to  have 
gained  sudi  appreciation  among  his  comrades  as  led 
them  to  entrust  him  with  the  more  delicate  and 
imaginative  branches  of  tin-  craft,  left  Paris  for 
Angers,  where  an  uncle  of  his  was  (as  I  have  already 
said)  a  priest  residing  in  a  convent :  according  to 
Villon's  own  account  (see  the  Lesser  Testament)  in 
consequence  of  the  despair  to  which  he  was  driven  by 
Catherine's  unkindness  and  which  led  him  to  exile 
himself  from  Paris,  for  the  purpose  of  endeavouring, 
by  change  of  scene  and  occuy)ation,  to  break  away 
from  the  "very  amorous  bondage"  in  which  he  felt 
his  heart  withering  away;  but  in  reality  (as  we  learn 
from  irrecusable  evidence)  with  the  view  of  examining 
into  the  possibility  of  a  business  operation  upon  the 
goods  of  a  rich  ecclesiastic  of  the  Angevin  town  and 


46  INTRODUCTION 

of  devising  such  a  plan  as  should,  from  a  careful 
artistic  study  of  the  localities  and  circumstance,  com- 
mend itself  to  his  ingenious  wit,  for  the  purpose  of 
enabling  the  band  to  relieve  the  good  priest  of  the 
five  or  six  hundred  crowns  *  which  they  believed  him 
to  possess.  Whether  this  scheme  was  carried  out  or 
not  we  have  no  information  :  however  this  may  be,  it 
does  not  appear  that  Villon  returned  to  Paris  for 
more  than  two  years  afterwards  and  his  long  sojourn 
in  the  provinces  is  probably  to  be  accounted  for  on 
the  supposition  that  he  received  warning  from  some 
of  his  comrades  of  the  discovery  of  the  burglary  com- 
mitted at  the  College  de  Navarre  and  feeling  himself 
inconveniently  well  known  to  the  Parisian  police, 
thought  it  best  to  remain  awhile  in  hiding  where  he 
was  less  notorious. 

The  discovery  and  consequent  (at  least  tempor- 
ary) break-up  of  the  band  was  due  to  the  drunken 
folly  of  Guy  Tabarie,  who  could  not  refrain  from 
boasting,  in  his  cups,  of  the  nefarious  exploits  ot 
himself  and  his  comrades,  who  (he  said)  possessed 
such  powerful  and  efficient  instruments  of  effraction 
that  no  locks  or  bolts  could  resist  them.  By  a  curi- 
ous hazard,  a  country  priest,  the  Prior  of  Paray-lc- 
Moniau,  a  connection  of  Guillaume  Coiffier,  to  whose 
despoilment  by  Villon  and  his  companions  T  have 
already  referred,  became  the  chance  recipient  of  the 
drunken  confidences  of  Tabarie,  whilst  staying  in 
Paris  and  breakfasting  at  the  Pulpit  Tavern  on  the 
Petit  Pont,  and  by  feigning  a  desire  to  take  part 


*  "Five  or  six  hundred  sold  crowns"  was  decidedly  the 
sacramental  sum  with  the  Companions,  who  apparently  dis- 
dained to  fly  at  more  trifling  game. 


INTRODUCTION  47 

in  his  burglarious  o])crations,  succeeded  in  eliciting 
from  him  sufficient  details  of  tin*  affaire  Coiffier  and 
that  of  the  College  de  Navarre  to  enable  him  to  pro- 
cure Tabarie's  arrest  and  committal  to  the  Chatelet 
prison  in  the  summer  of  1458.  Claimed  by  the 
Bishop  of  Paris  in  his  quality  of  clerk,  he  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  prison  of  the  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction 
and  after  sufferinjT  the  question  ordinary  and  ex- 
traordinary, made  a  full  confession,  dcnouncinfr  the 
various  members  of  the  band  and  naming  Villon  and 
Colin  de  Cayeulx  as  the  acting  chiefs.  This  hap- 
pened more  than  two  and  a  half  years  after  the  poet's 
departure  from  Paris,  nor  is  it  known  when  he  was 
arrested  in  consequence  of  the  revelations  of  Guy 
Tabarie :  but  it  is  probable,  looking  at  the  compara- 
tively full  manner  in  which  his  time  may  be  accounted 
for  between  that  date  and  1461,  that  his  arrest  took 
place  shortly  afterwards.  It  is  certain,  on  his  own 
showing,  that  he  was  again  tried  and  condemned  to 
death,  after  having  undergone  the  question  by  water, 
and  that  he  made  an  appeal  (the  text  of  which  has 
not  reached  us)  to  the  High  Court  of  Parliament, 
which,  being  probably  supported  by  some  of  his  in- 
fluential friends,  resulted  in  the  commutation  of  the 
capital  penalty  into  that  of  perpetual  exile  from  the 
kingdoTn.  It  was  apparently  in  the  interval  between 
the  pronunciation  of  his  condemnation  to  death  and 
the  allowance  of  the  appeal  that  he  composed  the 
magnificent  ballad,  in  which  he  imagines  himself  and 
his  companions  in  infamy  hanging  dead  upon  the  gib- 
bet of  Montfaucon,  with  faces  dented  with  bird-pecks, 
alternately  dried  up  and  blackened  by  the  sun  and 
blanched  and  soddened  by  the  rain,  and  in  whose  lines 


48  INTRODUCTION 

one  seems  to  hear  the  grisly  rattle  of  the  wind 
through  the  dry  bones  of  the  wretched  criminals 
"done  to  death  by  justice,"  as  they  swing  to  and  fro. 
making  weird  music  in  "the  ghosts'  moonshine.*' 
This  poem  establishes  the  fact  that  five  of  his  band 
were  condemned  with  him  and  it  is  probable  that  thes' 
unhappy  wretches,  less  fortunate  than  himself  in  pos- 
sessing influential  friends,  actually  realised  the 
ghastly  picture  conjured  up  by  the  poet's  fantastic 
imagination. 

On  receiving  notification  of  the  judgment  com- 
muting his  sentence,  he  addressed  to  the  Parliament 
the  curious  ballad  (called  in  error  his  Appeal),* 
requesting  a  delay  of  three  days  for  the  purpose  of 
providing  himself  and  bidding  his  friends  adieu,  be- 
fore setting  out  for  the  place  of  his  exile,  and  pres- 
ently left  Paris  on  his  wanderings.  Of  his  itinerary 
we  possess  no  indications  save  those  to  be  laboriously 
culled  from  his  poems  ;  but,  by  a  process  of  inference, 
we  may  fairly  assume  that  he  took  his  way  to  Orleans 
and  followed  the  course  of  the  Loire  nearly  to  its 
sources,  whence  he  struck  off  for  the  town  of  Rous- 
sillon  in  Dauphine,  a  possession  of  the  Duke  of  Bour- 
bon, who  had  lately  made  gift  of  it  to  his  bastard 
brother,  Louis  de  Bourbon,  Mareschal  and  Seneschal 
of  the  Bourbonnais,   supposed  to  be  the   Seneschal 


[*  M.  Longnon  is  manifestly  in  error  in  attributing  the  com- 
position of  this  Ballad  and  that  last  before  mentioned  to  the 
interval  between  Villon's  condemnation  for  the  homicide  of 
Chermoye  and  his  pardon,  as  is  sufficiently  evident  from  the 
fact  that  he  describes  himself  in  the  latter  as  one  of  six 
done  to  death  by  justice.  M.  Longnon's  statement  of  the 
judicial  consequences  of  the  prosecution  in  question  is  also 
at  variance  with  the  terms  of  the  letters  of  remission,  as 
set  out  in  his  appendix.] 


INTRODUCTION  ^'^ 

to  whom  ^'illon  alludes  as  having  once  paid  liis  debts. 
Under  the   winpr  of  this   friend,  he  probably   estab- 
lished his  headciuarters,  during  the  term  of  his  exile, 
at  Roussillon,  making  excursions  now  and  then   to 
other  places — notably  to  Salins  in  Burgundy,  where 
it  seems  he  had  managed  to  establish  the  tiiree  poor 
orphans  of  whom  he  speaks  in  tlie  Lesser  Testament. 
In  the  Greater  Testament  lie  represents  himself  as 
having  visited  them,  referring  to  them  in  such  terms 
as  to  leave  no  doubt  that  they  were  still  children, 
and  moreover  makes  a  bequest  for  the  purpose  of 
completing  Iheir  education  and  buying  them  cates. 
To  this  period  of  exile  (or  perhaps,  rather,  to  the 
time  of  his  preceding  visit  to  Angers)  must  also  be 
assigned  his  stay  at  St.  Generoux  in  the  marches  of 
Poitou,  where  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  two 
pretty  Poitevin  ladies — "fillos  belles  et  gentes,"  as  he 
calls  them — who  taught  him  to  speak  the  Poitou  dia- 
lect ;  and  his  visit  to  Blois,  where  Charles  d'Orleans 
was  then  residing  and  where  Villon  took  part  in  a 
sort    of    poetical    contest   established    by    the    poet- 
prince,  from  which  resulted  the  curious  ballad,  "Je 
meurs  de  soif  aupres  de  la  fontaine,"  composed  (as 
were  poems  of  a  like  character  by  a  number  of  other 
poets  *)  upon  the  theme  indicated  by  the  refrain  and 
offering  a  notable  example  of  the  inferiority  to  which 
a  great  and  original  poet  could  descend,  when  forced 
painfully   to   elaborate   the   unsympathetic   ideas   of 
others  and  to  bend  his  free  and  natural  style  to  the 
artificial  conceits  and  rhetorical  niceties  of  the  other 
rhvmcrs    of    the    day.      A   well-known    anecdote    of 


*Cf.     Les    Poesies   de   Charles   d'Orleans.     Ed.    Guichard, 
1842,  pp.  128-138. 


50  INTRODUCTION 

Rabelais  attributes  to  the  poet,  at  this  period  of  his 
life,  a  voyage  to  England,  where  he  is  said  to  have 
ingratiated  himself  with  the  then  regnant  king  and 
to  have  made  him  a  celebrated  speech  distinguished 
equally  by  wit  and  patriotism ;  but  the  story  carries 
in  itself  its  own  refutation  and  M.  Longnon  has 
shown  that  it  is  a  mere  modernisation  of  a  precisely 
similar  trait  attributed  to  another  Frencli  scholar 
of  earlier  date,  Hugues  le  Noir,  who  is  said  to  have 
taken  refuge  at  the  court  of  King  John  of  England 
in  the  thirteenth  century.  It  may  be  remarked,  by 
the  by,  as  a  curious  instance  of  the  vitality  of  these 
old  popular  jests,  that  the  trait  above  alluded  to 
has,  in  our  own  times,  become  the  foundation  of  one 
of  the  wittiest  of  modern  Yankee  stories.  There  is 
nothing  whatever  either  in  the  works  of  Villon  or  in 
any  contemporary  documents,  in  which  his  name  is 
mentioned,  to  show  that  he  at  any  time  visited  Eng- 
land. Had  he  done  so,  the  effect  of  so  radical  a 
change  in  his  habits  and  surroundings  would  certainly 
have  left  no  inconsiderable  trace  in  the  verse  of  so 
shrewd  and  keen  an  observer  of  men  and  manners: 
and  it  is  probable  that  the  whole  story  arose  from 
the  fact  of  his  banishment  from  the  kingdom  of 
France,  the  concoctor  forgetting  at  that  later  period 
that  the  France  of  Villon's  time  was  a  comparatively 
small  country,  from  which  banishment  was  possible 
into  many  independent  or  tributary  states,  which 
afterwards  became  an  integral  portion  of  the  French 
realm. 

During  the  term  of  his  banishment,  Villon  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  under  any  kind  of  police 
supervision.      At   that   time  there  existed  no   court 


INTRODUCTION  51 

exercising  supreme  authority  over  the  whole  king- 
dom ;  each  province,  nay,  each  ecclesiastical  diocese 
possessed  its  own  independent  civil  and  criminal 
jurisdiction,  having  little  or  no  connection  with  the 
better  organised  tribunals  of  Paris,  which  city  had 
not  3et  begun  to  be  that  nucleus  of  centralisation  it 
afterwards  became.  So  that  he  appears  to  have  b?' n 
comparativel}'^  free  to  move  about  at  will :  and  from 
a  passage  in  his  Greater  Testament,  in  which  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  "pauvre  mercerot  dc  Rennes" 
— poor  hawker  or  pedlar  of  Rennes — it  seems  pos- 
sible that  he  eked  out  the  scanty  doles  to  be  obtained 
from  the  kindness  of  friends  (such  as  the  Duke  de 
Bourbon,  who  lent  him  six  crowns  and  to  whom  we 
find  him  again  applying  for  a  loan,  and  Jean  le 
Cornu,  a  Parisian  ecclesiastic,  of  whom  says  Villon, 
"he  has  always  furnished  me  in  my  great  need  and 
distress")  by  travelling  as  a  pedlar  from  town  to 
town, — and  this  would  explain  his  wanderings  hither 
and  thither.*    However  if  he  ever  really  essayed  this 


[*  Since  the  above  was  written,  M.  Vitu  has  shown  in  his 
learned  introduction  to  his  great  work  on  the  "Jargon"  that 
the  mercerots  or  mercelots  formed  the  lowest  grade  of  the 
great  trades-guild  of  the  Mercicrs  and  were  mostly  rogues 
and  vagabonds  of  the  lowest  order,  whose  misdeeds,  com- 
mitted under  the  convenient  cover  of  the  pedlar's  pack,  were 
winked  at  and  to  whom  protection  was  extended  by  the 
powerful  parent  society  in  consideration  of  the  large  addi- 
tion to  its  revenues  derived  from  the  rcdcvanccs  or  amr>:;il 
dues  paid  by  them.  The  name  of  mercelot  or  pedlar  appears 
to  have  been,  indeed,  practically  synonymous  with  "sturdy 
rogue  and  vagabond ;"  many  of  the  class  were  secretly  affili- 
ated to  such  criminal  associations  as  the  Gueux  and  the 
Coquillarts  and  it  seems  probable,  therefore,  that  Villon's 
adoption  of  a  nominally  honest  calling  was  only  a  mask  for 
the  continuation  of  the  career  of  lawlessness  to  which  he 
must  have  been  irretrievably  committed.  Rennes  was  doubt- 
less the  headquarters  of  the  provincial  branch  of  the  Mercers* 
Guild  to  which  he  was  directly  affiliated.] 


52  INTRODUCTION 

honest  and  laborious  existence,  he  quickl}"^  tired  of  it 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  before  long  he  came  again 
in  contact  with  some  of  his  old  comrades  in  crime — 
members   of   the   dispersed   band,   either   exiled    like 
himself  or   hiding  from   justice   in    the   provinces — 
and  was  easily  led  to  resume  in  their  company  that 
cai-eer   of  dishonesty   and   turbulence   which   had   so 
fatal  an  attraction  for  him.     Among  these  was  nota- 
bly Colin  de  Cayeulx,  in  whose  company  he  no  doubt 
assisted  at  some  of  those  "esbats"  for  which,  in  the 
year  1461,  his   old  master  in  roguery  was    (as  he 
tells  us  in  the  Second  Balla'"  of  the  Jargon)  at  last 
subjected  to  the  extreme  y)t7>alty  of  the  law  being 
broken  on  the  wheel  probably  at  Montpippeau  near 
Orleans,    where    the    crimes    for    Avhich    he    suffered 
and  of  which  rape  seems  to  have  been  the  most  venial 
were   committed.      At   this   last-named  place,   Villon 
again  appears  in  the  centre  of  France,  trusting  ap- 
parently to  lapse  of  time  for  the  avoidance  of  his 
banishment ;  and  here  it  was  not  long  before  he  again 
came  in  collision  with  the  authorities.     In  the  early 
part  of  the  year  1461  we  find  him,  in  company  with 
others    of   unknown    condition,   committing   a   crime 
(said  to  have  been  the  theft  of  a  silver  lamp  from 
the  parish  church  of  Baccon  near  Orleans)  for  which 
he  was  arrested  by  the  ])olice  of  the  ecclesiastical 
jurisdiction  and  brought  before  the  tribunal  of  the 
Bishop    of   Orleans,    that   Jacques    Thibault    d'Aus- 
signy   against  whom  he   so   bitterly   inveighs   in  the 
Greater  Testament.     We  have  no  record  of  his  con- 
viction, but  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  he  was  again 
condemned  to  death,  although  (with  his  usual  luck) 
a   more    powerful   protector   than    had   ever   before 


INTRODUCTION  52 

intervened  in  his  favour  appeared  in  time  to  prevent 
the  execution  of  the  sentence.     It  appears  from  his 
own  statements  that  he  was,  during  the  whole  sum- 
mer of  1461,  confined  in  what  he  calls  a  "fosse"  in 
the  castle  of  Meung-sur-Lolre — a  name  reserved  for 
the  horrible  dens  without  light  or  air,  dripping  with 
water  and  swarming  with    rats,  toads,   and   snakes, 
adjoining  the  castle  moat.     Here  he  was  (if  we  may 
credit  his  own  statements)  more  than  once  subjected 
to  the  question  of  torture  bv  water  and  (what  seems 
+o  have  been  a  more  terrible  hardship  than  all  the 
rest  to  a  man  of  Villon's  passionate  devotion  to  rich 
and  delicate  eating  and  drinking)  he  was  "passing 
scurvily  fed"  on  dry  bread  and  water.     At  Meung, 
it  can  hardly  be  doubted,  he  composed  the  curious 
ballad  in  which  he  presents  his  heart  and  body,  or 
soul  and  sense,  arguing  one  against  the  other,  and 
sets  before  us,  in  a  pithy  and  well-sustained  dialogue, 
the   sentiments   of   remorse   and   despair — not   unre- 
lieved  by    the   inevitable    stroke    of   covert   satire — 
which  seem  to  have  formed  the  normal  state  of  his 
mind    during    any    interval    of    enforced    retirement 
from   the  light   of  the   sun   and   the  pursuit   of  his 
nefarious   profession.      To   this  period   also   belongs 
the  beautiful  and  pathetic  ballad,  in  which  he  calls 
upon  all  to  whom  Fortune  has  made  gift  of  freedom 
from  other  service  than  that  of  God  in  Paradise,  all 
for  whom  life  is  light  with  glad  laughter  and  pleasant 
song,  to  have  compassion  on  him  as  he  lies  on  the 
cold  earth,  fasting  feast  and  fast-days  alike,  in  the 
drearv  dungeon,  whither  neither  light   of  levin  nor 
noise  of  whirlwind  can  penetrate  for  the  thickness  of 
the  walls  that  enfold  him  like  the   cerecloths   of  a 


54  INTRODUCTION 

corpse.     From  an  expression  in  this  ballad,  it  would 
seem  that  there  were  no  steps  to  Villon's  cell,  but 
that  he  was  let  down  into  it  by  ropes,  as  was  the 
prophet  Jeremiah  in  the  dungeon  of  Malchiah  the 
son  of  Hamniclcch,  in  the  reign  of  Zedekiah  king  of 
Judah.     Here,  too,  he  seems  to  have  been  chained  up 
in  fetters   ("enforre")    and    (if  we  may  believe  him 
when  he  accuses  the  bishop  of  having  made  him  chew 
many  a  "poire  d'angoisse")  gagged  to  prevent  his 
crying  out.     To  all  this  were  added  the  tortures  of 
hunger,  for  even  the  wretched  food  supplied  to  liim 
seems  to  have  been  so  small  in  quantity  ("une  petite 
michc,"  says  he)  as  barely  to  stave  off  starvation, — 
a  wretched  state  of  things  for  a  man  who  had  always, 
on  his  own  confession,  too  well  nourished  his  body ; 
and  it  is  very  possible  that,  had  his  imprisonment 
been  of  long  duration,  hardship  and  privation  might 
have  ended  his  life.     However,  this  was  not  destined 
to  be  the  case.     In  July  1461  the  old  King  Charles 
VII  died  and  was  succeeded  by  the  Dauphin,  Louis 
XI ;   and  on  the  2nd  October  following,  the  latter 
remitted  Villon's  penalty  and  ordered  his  release  by 
letters  of  grace  dated  at  ^leung-sur-Loire,  where  he 
had  probably  learnt  the  fate  of  the  poet,  whilst  pass- 
ing in  the  course  of  the  royal  progress  customary 
on  a  new  king's  accession.    It  seems  probable  that  he 
remembered  Villon's  name  as  that  of  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, if  not  as  that  of  a  brilliant  and  ingenious  poet ; 
and  the  saying  is  indeed  traditionally  attributed  to 
Louis  XI,  whose  taste  in  literature  was  of  the  acut- 
est,  that  he  could  not  afford  to  hang  Villon,  as  the 
kingdom    could   boast   of    100,000    rascals    of   equal 
eminence,  but  not  of  one  other  poet  so  accomplished 


INTRODUCTION  55 

in  "gentilz  dictz  et  ingcnieux  .s9avoir,"  At  all  events, 
it  is  certain  that  Charles  d'Orleans,  to  whom  most 
commentators  have  ascribed  the  merit  of  procuring 
Villon's  release  by  intercession  with  the  king,  could 
not  have  successfully  intervened,  as  he  was  at  that 
time  in  disgrace  with  the  new  monarch,  between  whom 
and  himself  a  bitter  personal  hostility  had  long 
existed:  and  "Le  Dit  de  la  naissance  Marie 
d'Orleans" — by  which  poem,  addressed  to  the  father 
of  the  new-born  princess,  Villon  is  conjectured  to 
have  secured  his  good  offices — is  most  assuredly  the 
production  neither  of  Villon  nor  of  any  one  else  in 
any  way  worthy  of  the  name  of  poet. 

IV 

Immediately  upon  his  release,  Villon  seems  to  have 
returned  to  Paris  and  there  appears  to  be  some  little 
warrant  for  the  supposition  that  he  endeavoured  to 
earn  his  living  as  an  avoue  or  in  some  similar  capac- 
•'  itv  about  the  ecclesiastical  courts.  However  this 
may  be,  he  was  probably  speedily  obliged  to  renounce 
all  efforts  of  this  kind  on  account  of  the  failing  state 
of  his  health  and  the  exhaustion  consequent  upon  the 
privations  he  had  undergone  and  the  irregularity  of 
his  debauched  and  licentious  life.  It  would  appear, 
too,  from  an  allusion  in  his  later  verse,  that  his 
goods,  little  as  they  were  ("even  to  the  bed  under 
me,"  says  he),  had  been  seized  by  three  creditors, 
named  Moreau,  Provins  and  Turgis,  in  satisfaction 
apparently  of  debts  due  by  him  to  them,  or  to  reim- 
burse themselves  for  thefts  practised  at  their  ex- 
pense, at  the  time  of  '"Les  Repues  Franches,"  two 


56  INTRODUCTION 

of  which,  carried  out  at  Turgis's  cost,  I  have  already 
noticed :  and  as  the  scant}^  proceeds  of  the  execution 
are  not  hkely  to  have  satisfied  any  considerable  por- 
tion of  his  liabilities,  it  would  seem  that  his  creditors 
took  further  proceedings  against  him,  from  the  con- 
sequences of  which  he  was  compelled  to  seek  safety 
in  some  place  of  concealment,  whither  he  defies 
Turgis  to  follow  him.  That  he  did  not  take  refuge 
with  Guillaume  de  Villon  is  obvious  (as  is  also  the 
honourable  motive  that  prompted  him  to  hold  aloof 
from  his  old  friend  and  patron)  from  Octave  77  of 
the  Greater  Testament,  in  which  he  begs  his  "more 
than  father,"  who  was  (says  he)  saddened  enough 
by  this  last  scrape  of  his  protege,  to  leave  him  to 
disentangle  himself  as  best  he  could.  It  is  possible 
that  he  may  have  retired  to  one  of  the  hiding-places 
before  mentioned,  whither  he  and  his  comrades  were 
wont  to  resort  when  hard  pressed  by  the  police ;  but 
{pace  M.  Longnon)  it  seems  to  me  that  the  proba- 
bilities are  in  favour  of  his  having  sheltered  himself 
with  the  woman  whom  he  calls  "La  Grosse  Margot" 
and  who,  he  implies,  had  alone  retained  a  real  and 
faithful  attachment  to  him.  That  attachments  of 
such  a  nature  have  never  been  rare  among  women 
of  her  class  ("poor  liberal  girls!"  as  Villon  calls 
them),  in  whom  the  very  nature  of  their  terrible 
trade  seems  to  engender  an  ardent  longing  for  real 
and  unselfish  affection  which  has  often  led  them  to 
the  utmost  extremities  of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice, 
none  can  doubt  who  knows  anything  of  their  historv 
and  habits  as  a  class ;  and  one  need  go  no  further 
than  Dufour's  curious  History  of  Prostitution  or 
Dumas'    sympathetic    study,    "Filles,    Lorettes    et 


INTRODUCTION  57 

Courtisanes,"  for  touching  instances  of  the  pathetic 
abnegation  of  which  these  unhappy  creatures  are 
capable.  M.  Longnon  has  endeavoured,  with  a 
motive  in  which  all  admirers  of  the  poet  must  sym- 
pathise with  him,  to  contend  that  Villon's  connection 
with  La  Grosse  Margot  had  no  real  existence  and 
that  his  most  explicit  references  to  it  should  be  taken 
as  nothing  but  a  j)layful  and  figurative  description 
of  his  ])resumed  devotion  to  some  tavern,  for  which  a 
portrait  of  the  woman  in  question  served  as  sign. 
With  all  respect  for  M.  Longnon's  most  honourable 
intention  and  all  possible  willingness  to  accept  any 
reasonable  conjecture  that  might  tend  to  remove 
from  the  poet's  name  a  stigma  of  which  his  lovers 
must  be  painfully  sensible,  I  am  yet  utterly  at  a  loss 
to  discover  any  warrant  for  the  above-mentioned 
theorv.  It  is  of  course  possible  that  the  ballad  in 
which  Villon  so  circumstantially  exposes  the  connec- 
tion in  question  may  have  been  intended  as  a  mere 
piece  of  bravado  or  mystification ;  but,  failing  evi- 
dence of  this,  I  defy  any  candid  reader  to  place  such 
a  construction  upon  the  text  as  will  justify  any 
other  conclusion  than  the  very  unsavoury  one  usually 
adopted. 

Rejected  by  the  only  woman  of  his  own  rank  whom 
he  seems  to  have  loved  with  a  real  and  tender  passion 
and  even  cast  off  by  his  sometime  mistress  Jehanne- 
ton  la  Chaperonniere,  one  can  hardly  blame  Villon 
for  not  refusing  the  shelter  of  the  one  attachment, 
low  and  debased  as  it  was,  which  remained  to  him. 

In  this  retirement,  whatever  it  was,  deserted  by  all 
his  friends  and  accompanied  only  by  his  boy-clerk 


58  INTRODUCTION 

Fremin,*  Villon  appears  to  have  at  once  addressed 
himself  to  the  composition  of  the  capital  work  of  his 
life,  the  Greater  Testament.     He  had  now  attained 
the  age  of  thirty,  and  young  as  he  still  was,  he  felt 
that  he  had  not  much  longer  to  live.     The  terrible 
life  of  debauchery,  privation  and  hardship  he  had  led 
had  at  last  begun  to  produce  its  natural  effect.     To 
the  maladies  contracted  in  his  youth  and  to  the  natu- 
ral exhaustion  caused  by  an  incessant  alternation  of 
the  wildest  debauch   and  the   most   cruel  privation, 
appears  now  to  have  been  added  some  disease  of  the 
lungs,  probably   consumption,  which  caused  him  to 
burn  with  insatiable  thirst  and  to  vomit  masses  of 
snow-white  phlegm  as  big  as  tennis-balls  (the  student 
of  our  own  old  poets  will  recall  the  expression  "to 
spit  white,"  so  commonly  applied  to  those  attacked 
with  a  fatal  affection  of  the  lungs,  consequent  upon 
excess),  a  disorder  probably  contracted  in  the  reek- 
ing dungeon  of  the  castle  of  !Meung  and  aggravated 
by  the  terrible  effects  of  the  question  by  water,  which 
he  had  so  often  undergone  and  from  which  the  pa- 
tient rarely  entirely  recovered.     Indeed,  he  expressly 
attributes  these  latter  symptoms  to  his  having  been 
forced  by  the  Bishop  of  Orleans  to  drink  so  much 
cold  water.      He   tells  us,   at  the  commencement  of 
his  Greater  Testament,  that  his  youth  had  left  him, 
how  he  knew  not,  and  that,  though  yet  in  reality  a 
cockerel,  he  had  the  voice  and  appearance  of  an  old 
rook.       Sad,    dejected    and    despairing,    with    face 
blacker,  as  he  says,  than  a  mulberry  for  stress  of 
weatlicr  and  privation,  without  hair,  beard  or  eye- 
brows,  bare   as    a    turnip    from   disease,   with   body 

♦Possibly   (and  even  probably)    an  imaginary  character. 


INTRODUCTION  o9 

oiiiaciatcd  with  hunger  ("The  worms  will  have  no 
great  ])urchase  thereof,"  says  he:  "hunger  has 
waged  too  stern  a  war  on  it;")  and  every  limb  one 
anguiNh  for  disease,  with  empty  purse  and  stomach, 
dependent  on  charity  for  subsistence,  so  sick  at  heart 
and  feeble  that  he  could  hardly  speak,  his  eyes  seem 
at  last  to  have  been  definitively  opened  to  the  ter- 
rible folly  of  his  past  life.  He  renounces  at  last 
those  delusive  pleasures  for  which  he  retains  neither 
hope  nor  capacity :  "No  more  desire  in  me  is  hot," 
he  cries ;  "I've  put  my  lute  beneath  the  seat :" 
travail  and  misery  have  sharpened  his  wit :  he  con- 
fesses and  repents  of  his  sins,  forgives  his  enemies 
and  turns  for  comfort  to  religion  and  maternal  love, 
consoling  himself  with  the  reflection  that  all  must 
die,  great  and  small,  and  that  after  such  a  life  as 
lie  had  led,  an  honest  death  had  nothing  that  should 
displease  him,  seeing  that  in  life,  as  in  love,  "each 
y)leasure's  bought  with  fifty  pains."  After  a  long 
and  magnificent  prelude,  in  which  he  laments  the 
excesses  of  his  youth,  justifying  himself  by  his  fa- 
vourite argument  that  necessity  compels  folk  to  do 
evil,  as  want  drives  wolves  out  of  the  brake,  and 
sues  for  the  favourable  and  compassionate  consid- 
eration of  those  whose  lot  in  life  has  placed  them 
above  necessity, — interrupted  by  numerous  episodes, 
some  humourous,  some  ])athetic,  the  individual  beauty 
of  which  is  so  great  that  (like  the  so-called  diffuse 
digressions  which  abound  in  the  music  of  Schubert ) 
one  cannot  quarrel  with  their  want  of  proportion  to 
the  general  theme, — he  commends  his  soul  to  the 
various  persons  of  the  Trinity  in  language  of  the 
most  exalted  piety  and  proceeds,  in  view  of  his  ap- 


60  INTRODUCTION 

preaching  death,  to  dictate  to  his  clerk  what  he  calls 
his  Testament,  being  a  long  series  of  huitains  or 
eight-line  octos3'llabic  stanzas,  in  each,  of  which  he 
makes  some  mention,  humorous,  pathetic  or  satirical, 
of  some  one  or  more  of  the  numerous  personages  who 
had  trodden  with  him  the  short  but  vari-coloured 
scene  of  his  life.  Many  of  the  men,  women,  places 
and  things  he  sets  before  us  in  a  few  keen  and  incisive 
words,  from  which  often  spring  the  swiftest  light- 
nings of  humour  and  the  most  poignant  flashes  of 
pathos,  blending  together  in  extricable  harmony, 
with  a  careless  skill  worthy  of  Heine  or  Laforgue, 
the  maddest  laughter  and  the  most  bitter  tears. 
Lamartine  or  De  Musset  contains  no  tenderer  or 
more  plaintive  notes  than  those  which  break,  like  a 
primrose,  from  the  Spring-ferment  of  his  verse,  nor 
is  there  to  be  found  in  Vaughan  or  Christina  Rossetti 
a  holier  or  sweeter  strain  than  the  ballad  which 
bears  his  mother's  name.  Among  the  lighter  pieces, 
by  which  his  more  serious  efforts  are  relieved,  I  may 
mention  the  delightfully  humorous  orison  for  the  soul 
of  his  notary.  Master  Jehan  Cotard;  the  brightly- 
coloured  ballad  called  "Les  Contredictz  de  Franc- 
Gontier,"  in  which,  with  comic  emphasis,  he  de- 
nounces the  so-called  pleasures  of  a  country  life : 
and  the  tripping  lilt  that  he  devotes  to  the  praise  of 
the  women  of  Paris.  In  the  Ballad  of  I.a  Grossc 
Mai-got,  he  gives  us  a  terrible  picture  of  the  degrad- 
ing expedients  to  which  he  was  forced  by  the  fright- 
ful necessities  of  his  misguided  existence  and  dedi- 
cates to  Fran9ois  Perdryer  above  named  "The  Bal- 
lad of  Slanderous  Tongues,"  perhaps  the  most  un- 
compromising example  of  pure  invective  that  cxi'^ts 


INTRODUCTION  6^ 

in  any  known  literature.  Towards  the  end  of  his 
poem,  in  verses  pregnant  with  serious  and  well-illus- 
trated meaning,  he  addresses  himself  to  the  com- 
panions of  his  crimes  and  follies — "ill  souls  and 
bodies  well  bestead,"  as  he  calls  them — and  bids  them 
beware  of  "that  ill  sun  which  tans  a  man  when  he  is 
dead,"  warning  them  that  all  their  crimes  and  ex- 
travagances have  brought  them  nothing  but  misery 
and  privation,  with  the  prospect  of  a  shameful 
death  at  last,  that  ill-gotten  goods  are  nobody's 
gain,  but  drift  away  to  wanton  uses,  like  chaff  before 
the  wind,  and  exhorting  them  to  mend  their  lives 
and  turn  to  honest  labour.  When  he  has  to  his 
satisfaction  exhausted  his  budget  of  memories,  tears 
and  laughter,  he  strikes  once  more  the  fatalist  key- 
note of  the  whole  work  in  a  noble  "meditation"  on 
the  equality  of  all  earthly  things  before  the  inexor- 
able might  of  Death  and  adds  a  Roundel,  in  which  he 
deprecates  the  further  rigour  of  Fate  and  expresses 
a  hope  that  his  repentance  may  find  acceptance  at 
the  hands  of  God.  Finally,  he  names  his  executors, 
gives  directions  for  his  burial,  orders  an  epitaph  to 
be  scratched  over  him,  to  preserve  his  memory  as 
that  of  a  good  honest  wag  ("un  bon  folatre"),  and 
concludes  by  determining,  in  view  of  his  approaching 
death,  to  beg  forgiveness  of  all  men,  which  he  does 
in  a  magnificent  ballad,  bearing  the  refrain,  "I  cry 
folk  mercy,  one  and  all"  (from  which,  however,  he 
still  excepts  the  Bishop  of  Orleans),  winding  up  with 
a  second  ballad,  in  which  he  solemnly  repeats  his 
assertion  that  he  dies  a  martyr  to  Love  and  invites  all 
lovers  to  his  funeral. 

No   work    of    Villon's,    posterior    to    the    Greater 


Q'2  INTRODUCTION 

Testament,  is  known,  to  us,  nor  is  there  any  trace 
of  its  existence;  indeed,  from  the  date,  1461,  with 
which  he  liimself  heads  his  principal  work,  we  entirely 
lose  sight  of  him:  and  it  may  be  sup})osed,  in  view 
of  the  condition  of  mental  and  bodily  weakness  in 
which  we  find  him  at  that  time,  that  he  did  not  long 
survive    its    completion.      Indeed    (as    M.    Longnon 
justly  observes),  in  the  case  of  so  eminent  a  poet, 
there  could  be  no  stronger  proof  of  his  death  than 
his   cessation   to   produce   verses.      The   Codicil    (so 
named  by  some  compiler  or  editor  after  the  poet's 
death)  is  a  collection  of  poems  which  contain  internal 
evidence    of    having    been    composed    at    an    earlier 
period ;  and  the  other  pieces — Les  Repues  Tranches, 
the  Dialogue  of  Mallepaye  and  Baillevent  and  the 
Monologue    of    the    Franc    Archier   de    Baignolet — 
which  are  generally  joined  to  the  Testaments   and 
Codicil,  bear  no  trace   whatever  of  Villon's  handi- 
work.    They  were  not  even  added  to  his  works  until 
1532  and  were  in  the  following  year  summarily  re- 
jected as  spurious  by  Clement  Marot  from  his  defi- 
nite edition,  prepared  by  order  of  Francis  I.    Never- 
theless, I  do  not  entirely  agree  with  M.  Longnon  in 
supposing  that  Villon  died  immediately  after  1461. 
This    would    be    to    assume    that    the   whole    of   the 
Greater  Testament  was  written  at  one  time:  and  for 
this  assumption  there  seems  to  me  to  be  no  warrant. 
On  the   contrary,   even   as   the  interpolated  ballads 
and  rondeaux  bear  for  the  most  part  signs  of  an 
earlier  origin,  there  seems  to  me  to  exist  in  the  body 
of  the  Greater  Testament  internal  evidence  that  the 
principal  portion  of  the  poem  (i.  e.,  that  written  in 
huitains)    was   composed   at   four   or   five,   perhaps 


INTRODUCTION  63 

more,  different  returns ;  and  it  is,  therefore,  prob- 
able that  Villon  survived  for  two  or  three  3'ears  after 
his  release  from  Meung  gaol.*  Rabelais,  indeed, 
states  in  his  "Pantagruel"  that  the  poet,  in  his  old 
age,  retired  to  St.  Maixent  in  Poitou,  where,  under 
the  patronage  of  an  honest  abbot  of  that  ilk,  he 
amused  himself  and  entertained  the  people  with  a 
representation  of  the  Passion  "en  gestes  et  en  Ian- 
gage  Poitevins;"  but  this  tradition  (if  tradition  it 
be)  which  Rabelais  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Seigneur  dc  Basche,  is  as  completely  improbable, 
destitute  of  confirmation  and  unworthy  of  serious 
attention  as  that  of  Villon's  journey  to  England  and 
seems  to  me  to  prove  nothing,  save,  perhaps,  that 
Villon  at  that  time  (1550),  when  his  works  had  al- 
ready begun  to  fall  into  disuse,  had  become  a  mere 
traditional  lay-figure,  on  which  to  hang  vague 
stories  of  "villonneries,"  adaptable  to  all  kinds  of 
heroes  and  mostly  suggested  by  the  Repues  Franches. 
There  occurs  also,  in  a  Gazetteer  published  in  1726, 
an  assertion  that  Mllon  Avas  burnt  for  impiety ;  but, 
althoug-h  to  a  reader  of  his  works  this  would  seem 
by  no  means  unlikely — not  by  reason  of  any  real 
impiety  on  the  part  of  Villon  ( for  it  is  evident  that, 
as  is  so  often  the  case  with  men  of  loose  and  even 


[♦The  opinion  expressed  in  the  above  lines  (which  were 
written  in  1878)  has  recentlj'  been  completely  confirmed  by 
the  terms  of  a  judicial  document  discovered  in  the  Archives 
Rationales  and  first  published  by  M.  Longnon  (i8o2\  to  wit, 
the  letters  of  Remission  granted  by  Louis  XI  in  November 
1463  to  Robin  Dogis  for  the  wounding  of  one  Frangois 
Ferrebouc,  in  an  afTray  which  took  place  near  the  church  of 
St.  Benoit  and  at  which  \'illon  is  mentioned  as  having  been 
present,  though  not  implicated  therein,  thus  proving  that  the 
poet  was  still  alive  in  1463,  two  years  after  the  date  of  the 
Greater  Testament.] 


64  INTRODUCTION 

criminal  life,  his  faith  in  religion  was  sincere  and 
deep-seated),  but  because  of  the  continual  jests  and 
sarcasms  he  permits  himself  at  the  expense  of  the 
monks  and  secular  clergy,  always  far  more  ready  to 
pardon  actual  heresy  or  infidelity  than  such  personal 
attacks,  having  no  relation  to  religion,  as  tend  to 
discredit  themselves  among  the  people — yet,  looking 
at  the  utter  want  of  confirmation  and  of  any  previ- 
ous mention  of  the  alleged  fact  and  considering  the 
grotesque  ignorance  of  the  eighteenth  century  with 
regard  to  the  old  writers  and  especially  the  old  poets 
of  France,  we  are  fully  justified  in  treating  the 
assertion  as  an  absurd  invention. 

No  edition  of  Villon's  works  is  extant  which  is 
known  to  have  been  published  in  his  lifetime  and  to 
which  we  might  therefore  have  turned  for  informa- 
tion. The  first  edition,  though  undated,  was  evi- 
dently published  without  his  concurrence  and  almost 
certainly  after  his  death ;  and  the  second,  published 
in  1489,  affords  no  clue  to  the  date  of  that  event, 
though  printed  after  the  year  mentioned  as  an  ex- 
treme limit  by  those  of  his  commentators  who  have 
ascribed  to  him  the  longest  life.  It  is  much  to  be 
regretted  that  the  will  of  Guillaume  de  Villon  is  not 
extant,  as  it  would  almost  certainly  have  contained 
some  reference  to  the  good  canon's  unhappy  pro- 
tege, whether  dead  or  alive, — in  the  latter  case,  for 
the  purpose  of  making  some  provision  for  him,  and 
in  the  former,  with  some  mention  of  his  death  and 
some  pious  wish  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  It  prob- 
ably perished,  with  many  other  valuable  records  and 
archives, — from  which  we  might  have  fairly  expected 
to  glean  important  supplementary  information  rela- 


INTRODUCTION  65 

tive  to  Villon, — in  the  Saturnalia  of  ci'iminal  and 
purposeless  destruction  which  disgraced  the  French 
Revolution. 


There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Villon  was  appreciated 
at  something  like  his  real  literary  value  by  the  people 
of  his  time.  Little  as  we  know  of  his  life,  every- 
thing points  to  the  conclusion  that  his  writings  were 
highly  popular  during  his  lifetime,  not  only  among 
those  princes  and  gallants  whom  he  had  made  his 
friends,  but  among  that  Parisian  public  of  the  lower 
orders,  with  which  he  was  so  intimately  identified. 
Allusions  here  and  there  lead  us  to  suppose  that  his 
ballads  and  shorter  pieces  were  known  among  the 
people  long  before  their  publication  in  a  collective 
form  and  it  is  probable,  indeed,  that  they  were 
hawked  about  in  manuscript  and  afterwards  printed 
on  broadsheets  in  black-letter,  as  were  such  early 
English  poems  as  tlie  Childe  of  Bristowe  and  the 
History  of  Tom,  Thumb.  For  many  years  after  his 
death  the  Ballads  were  always  distinguished  from 
the  rest  by  the  descriptive  headings  of  the  various 
editions,  in  which  the  printers  announce  "The  Testa- 
ments of  Villon  and  his  Ballads,"  as  if  the  latter  had 
previously  been  a  separate  and  well-known  specialty 
of  the  poet's.  We  may  even  suppose  them  to  have 
been  set  to  music  and  sung,  as  were  the  odes  of 
Ronsard  a  hundred  years  later,  and  indeed  many  of 
them  seem  imperatively  to  call  for'  such  treatment. 
Wlio  cannot  fancy  the  ballad  of  the  Women  of  Paris 
— "II  n'est  bon  bee  que  de   Paris" — being  carolled 


66  INTRODUCTION 

about  the  streets  by  the  students  and  street-boys  of 
the  day,  or  the  Orison  for  ^Master  Cotard's  Soul 
being  trolled  out  as  a  drinking-song  by  that  jolly 
toper  at  some  jovial  reunion  of  the  notaries  and 
"chicquanous"  of  his  acquaintance? 

The  thirty-four  editions,  known  to  have  been  pub- 
lished before  the  end  of  the  year  1542,*  are  suffi- 
cient evidence  of  the  demand  (probably  for  the  time 
unprecedented)  which  existed  for  his  poems  during 
the  seventj^  or  eighty  years  that  followed  his  death ; 
and  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  the  greatest  poet  of 
the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century  should  have 
applied  himself,  at  the  special  request  of  Francis  I 
(who  is  said  to  have  known  Villon  by  rote),  to  rescue 
the  works  of  the  Parisian  poet  from  the  labyrinth 
of  corruption  and  misrepresentation  into  which  they 
had  fallen  through  the  carelessness  of  printers  and 
the  indifference  of  the  public,  who  seem  to  have  had 
his  verses  too  well  by  heart  to  trouble  themselves  to 
protest  against  misprints  and  misreadings.  In  the 
preface  to  this  edition  (of  which  twelve  reprints  in 
nine  years  sufficiently  attest  the  estimation  in  which 
Villon  was  held  by  the  cultivated  intellects  of  the 
early  Renaissance  period)  Marot  pays  a  high  tribute 
to  "le  premier  poete  parisien,''  as  he  styles  Villon, 
declaring  the  better  part  of  his  work  to  be  of  such 
artifice,  so  full  of  fair  doctrine  and  so  emblazoned 
in  a  thousand  bright  colours,  that  Time,  which 
effaces  all  things,  had  not  thitherto  succeeded  in 
effacing  it  nor  should  still  less  efface  it  thencefor- 
ward, so  long  as  good  French  letters  should  be  known 
and  preserved.      Marot's  own  writings  bear  evident 


[*  See    M.    Longnon's    Bibliographic    des    Imprimes.] 


INTRODUCTION  67 

iraces  of  the  c-are  and  love  with  which  he  had  studied 
tlie  first  poet  of  his  time,  who  indeed  appears  to  have 
ifiven  the  tone  to  all  the  rhymers — Grin^oirc,  Henri 
Baude,  Martial  D'Auvergnc,  Cretin,  Coquillart,  Jean 
Marot,  Roger  de  Collcrye,  Guillaume  Alexis — who 
continued,  though  with  no  great  brilliancy,  to  keep 
alive  the  sound  and  cadence  of  French  song  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  fifteenth  and  the  first  years  of 
the  sixteenth  centuries.  The  advent  of  the  poets 
of  the  Pleiad  and  the  deluge  of  Latin  and  Greek 
form  and  sentiment  with  which  they  flooded  the 
poetic  literature  of  France  seem  at  once  to  have 
arrested  the  popularity  of  the  older  poets:  imitations 
of  Horace,  Catullus,  Anacreon,  Pindar  took  the 
place  of  the  more  spontaneous  and  original  style  of 
poetry  founded  upon  the  innate  capacities  of  the 
language  and  that  "esprit  Gaulois"  which  repre- 
sented the  national  sentiment  and  tendencies.  The 
memory  of  A  illon,  eufant  de  Paris,  cliild  of  the 
Parisian  gutter,  as  he  was,  went  down  before  the 
new  movement,  characterised  at  once  by  its  extreme 
oursuit  of  refinement  at  all  hazards  and  its  neglect 
of  those  stronger  and  deeper  currents  of  sympathy 
,:.irI  passion,  for  which  one  must  dive  deep  into  the 
tioubled  waters  of  popular  life  and  activity.  For 
nearly  three  centuries  the  name  and  fame  of  the 
singer  of  the  Ladies  of  Old  Time  remained  practic- 
ally forgotten,  buried  under  wave  upon  wave  of  lit- 
erary and  ])olitical  movement,  all  apparently  equally 
hostile  to  the  tendency  and  spirit  of  his  work.  We 
f'i'id,  indeed,  the  three  greatest  spirits  of  the  six- 
teenth and  seventeenth  centuries,  Rabelais,  Regnier 
and  La  Fontaine,  evincing  by  their  works  and  style. 


68  INTRODUCtlON 

if  not  by  any  more  explicit  declaration,  tiieir  pro- 
found knowledge  and  sincere  appreciation  of  Villon ; 
but  their  admiration  had  no  effect  upon  the  universal 
consent  with  which  the  tastes  and  tendencies  of  their 
respective  times  appear  to  have  decreed  the  complete 
oblivion  of  the  early  poet.  The  first  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  indeed,  produced  three  several 
editions  of  Villon ;  but  the  critics  and  readers  of  the 
age  were  little  likely  to  prefer  the  robust  and  high- 
fiavoured  food,  that  Villon  set  before  them,  to  the 
whipped  creams,  the  rose  and  musk-scented  confec- 
tions with  which  the  literary  pastry-cooks  of  the  day 
so  liberally  supplied  them ;  and  it  was  not  until  the 
full  development,  towards  the  end  of  the  first  half 
of  the  present  century,  of  the  Romantic  movement 
(a  movement  whose  causes  and  tendencies  bore  so 
great  an  affinity  to  that  of  which  Villon  in  his  own 
time  was  himself  the  chief  agent),  that  he  began  to 
be  ill  some  measure  restored  to  his  proper  place  in 
the  hierarchy  of  French  literature.  Yet  we  can  still 
remember  the  compassionate  ridicule  with  which  the 
efforts  of  Thcophile  Gautier  to  revindicate  his  mem- 
ory were  received  and  how  even  that  perfect  and 
noble  spirit,  in  whose  catholic  and  unerring  appre- 
ciation no  spark  of  true  genius  or  of  worthy  origi- 
nality ever  failed  to  light  a  corresponding  flame  of 
enthusiasm,  was  fain  to  dissimulate  the  fervour  of 
his  admiration  under  the  transparent  mask  of  par- 
tial depreciation  and  to  provide  for  his  too  bold 
enterprise  of  rehabilitation  a  kind  of  apologetic 
shelter  by  classing  the  first  great  poet  of  France  with 
far  less  worthy  writers,  under  the  title  of  "Les 
Grotesques."     In  the  country  of  his  birth,  Villon  is 


INTRODUCTION  09 

still  little  read,  although  the  illustrious  poet  Theo- 
dore de  Banville  did  much  to  expedite  the  revival  of 
his  fame  by  regenerating^  the  form  in  which  his 
greatest  triumphs  were  achieved;  and  it  is  perhaps, 
indeed,  in  England  that  his  largest  jjublic  (scanty 
enough  as  yet)  may  be  expected  to  be  found.  How- 
ever, better  days  have  definitively  dawned  for  A'illon's 
memory :  he  is  at  last  recognised  by  all  who  occupy 
themselves  with  poetry  as  one  of  the  most  original 
and  genuine  of  European  singers ;  and  the  spread 
of  his  newly-regained  reputation  can  now  be  only  a 
matter  of  time. 

The  vigorous  beauty  and  reckless  independence  of 
Villon's   style  and  thought,  although  a  great,  have 
been  by  no  means  the  only  obstacle  to  his  enduring 
popularity.     A  hardly  less  effectual  one  has  always 
existed  in  the  evanescent  nature  of  the  allusion  upon 
which  so  large  a  part  of  his  work  is  founded.     In  the 
preface   to   the   edition   above   referred   to,   Clement 
Marot  allows  it  to  be  inferred  that,  even  at  so  com- 
paratively early  a  period  as  1533,  the  greater  part 
of  his  references  to  persons  and  places  of  his  own 
day   had   become   obscure,    if   not    altogether    unde- 
cipherable, to  all  but  those  few  persons  of  advanced 
age,  who  may  be  said  to  have  been  almost  his  con- 
temporaries.    In  Harot's  own  words,  "Sufficiently  to 
understand  and  explain  the  industry  or  intention  of 
the  bequests  he  makes  in  his  Testament,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  have  been  a  Parisian  of  his  time  and  to  have 
known   the   places,   things   and   people   of  which   he 
speaks,  the  memory  whereof,  as  it  shall  more  and 
more  pass  away,  so  much  the  less  shall  be  compre- 
hended the  poet's  intention  in  the  references  afore- 


70  INTRODUCTION 

said."     It  is  indeed  difficult  and  in  many  cases  im- 
possible to  understand  the  intent,  based  upon  cur- 
rent and  purely  local  circumstance,  with  which  the 
poet  made  so  many  and  such  grotesque  bequests  to 
his  friends  and  enemies.     One  can,  by  a  stretch  of 
imagination,  to  some  extent  catch  his  meaning,  when 
he  bequeaths  to  this  and  that  hard  drinker  some  of 
the    numerous    taverns    or    wine-shops — the    White 
Horse,  the  Mule,  the  Diamond,  the  elibbing  Ass,  the 
Tankard,    the    Fir-cone,    the   Golden    Mortar — with 
whose  names  his  verse  bristles,  or  the  empty  casks 
that  once  held  the  wine  stolen  from  this  or  the  other 
vintner ;    to   his    roguish    companions,    the    right    of 
shelter  in  the  ruins  around  Paris,  a  cast  of  cogged 
dice  or  a  pack  of  cheating  cards ;  to  poultry-sneaks 
and  gutter-thieves,  the  long  gray  cloaks  that  should 
serve  to  conceal  their  purchase ;  to  his  natural  ene- 
mies, the  sergeants  of  the  watch,  the  cotton  night- 
caps,"*  that  they  might  sleep   in  comfortable  igno- 
rance of  his  nocturnal  misdeeds  ;  and  to  others  of 
his    dearest    foes,    the    Conciergerie    and    Chatelet 
prisons,  with  a  right  of  rent-charge  on  the  pillory, 
"three  strokes  of  withy  well  laid  on  and  prison  lodg- 
ing all  their  life;"  to  his  barber,  the  clippings  of 
his  hair  and  to  his  cobbler  and  tailor,  his  old  shoes 
and  clothes  "for  less  than  what  they  cost  when  new." 
And  we  can  more  or  less  dimly  appreciate  his  satir- 
ical intention,  when  he  bequeaths  to  monks,  nuns  and 
varlets    the   means    of   dissipation   and   debauch,   of 
which  he  had  good  reason  to  know  they  so  freely 
availed  themselves  without  the  need  of  his  permis- 


[*  Cornetes.    This  word  should  perhaps  be  read  in  its  older 
sense  of  "tippet"  or  "bandelet."] 


INTRODUCTION  71 

sion ;  to  notaries  of  the  Chatolct  the  good  grace  of 
their  superior  the  Provost ;  to  his  friend  the  Senes- 
chal and  Marechal  de  Bourhon,  the  punning  quali- 
fication of  marechal  or  blacksmith  and  the  right  of 
.shoeing  ducks  and  geese  (probably  a  hit  at  the 
prince's  amorous  complexion  *)  ;  to  a  butcher  a  fat 
sheej)  belonging  to  some  one  else  and  a  whisk  to  keep 
the  flies  oft'  his  meat :  to  the  women  of  pleasure,  the 
right  to  hold  a  ])ublic  school  by  night,  where  mas- 
ters should  be  taught  of  scholars  ;  to  one  of  his  com- 
rades, nicknamed  (as  is  sure  to  be  the  case  in  almost 
every  band  of  thieves)  "the  Chaplain,"  "his  simple- 
tonsure  chaplaincy  ;"  or  to  the  three  hundred  blind 
nmtes  of  the  Hospital  des  Quinze-Vingts  and  the 
Cemetery  of  the  Innocents,  his  spectacles,  that,  in 
the  churchyards  where  they  served,  they  might  see 
to  separate  the  bad  from  the  good :  these  all  have  yet 
for  us  some  glinnner,  more  or  less  sufficient,  of  sense 
and  meaning.  But  why  he  should  bequeath  to  three 
dift'ei-ent  persons  his  double-handed  or  battle-sword 
- — an  article  it  is  not  likely  he  ever  possessed,  the 
tuckt  or  dirk  being  the  scholar's  weapon  of  the 
time ;  why  he  should  gratify'  a  clerk  to  the  Parlia- 
ment with  a  shop  and  trade,  to  be  purchased  out  of 
the  ])rocecds  of  the  sale  of  his  hauberk  (another 
article,  by  the  by,  which  he  certainly  never  owned) : 
why  he  should  give  to  a  respectable  Parisian  citizen 
the  acorns  of  a  willow  plantation  and  a  daily  dole  of 


[*  Or  perhaps  at  his  simplicity,  fcrrcr  Ics  oies  being  an  old 
phxase  meaning  "to  waste  time  in  trifling,  to  spend  both  time 
and    labour   verj'   \a.\n\y."—Coi(jravc.] 

[t  Tuck  (Old  Iri-^h  luca).  a  clerk's  short  sword  or  hanger, 
not  the  long  narrow  thrusting  weapon  (rapier)  after  known 
by  the  same  name.l 


72  INTRODUCTIOx\ 

poultry  and  wine ;  to  Rene  dc  Montigny  three  dogs, 
and  to  Jehan  Raguyer,  a  sergeant  of  the  provostrj 
of  Paris,  one  liundred  francs ;  to  his  proctor  Four- 
nier,  leather  ready  cut  out  for  shoes  and  caps ;  to  a 
couple  of  thieves,  "bacon,  peas,  charcoal  and  wood ;" 
to  two  echevins  of  Paris  each  an  eggshell  full  of 
francs  and  crowns ;  to  three  notaries  of  the  Chatelet 
a  basketful  each  of  stolen  cloves  ;  why  he  should  will 
to  his  barber,  Colin  Galerne,  an  iceberg  from  the 
Marne,  to  be  used  as  an  abdominal  plaster,  or  direct 
the  joinder  of  Mount  Valerien  to  Montmartre ; — all 
these  and  others  of  the  same  kind — though  no  doubt 
full  of  pertinence  and  meaning  at  the  time  when  the 
persons,  things  and  places  referred  to  were  still  ex- 
tant or  fresh  in  the  memory  of  their  contemporaries 
— are  now  for  us  enigmas  of  the  most  hopeless  kind, 
hidden  in  a  darkness  which  may  be  felt  and  which  it 
can  hardly  be  hoped  that  time  and  patience,  those 
two  great  revealers  of  hidden  things,  will  ever  avail 
to  penetrate  with  any  sufficient  light  of  interpreta- 
tion.* 

Nevertheless,  when  we  have  made  the  fullest  pos- 
sible allowance  for  obscurity  and  faded  interest, 
there  still  remain  in  Villon's  surviving  verse  treasures 
of  beauty,  wit  and  wisdom  enough  to  ensure  the 
preservation  of  his  memory  as  a  poet  what  while  the 
French  language  and  literature  endure.f 


[*  The  antithetical  interpretation  proposed  by  M.  Bijvanck, 
according  to  which  Villon  may  be  supposed  to  have  intended 
to  annul  each  legacy  by  the  succeeding  words,  taken  in  their 
secondary  meaning,  seems  hardly  satisfactory;  but  see  my 
notes  to  the  Poems,  passim.] 

1 1  take  this  opportunity  to  protest  against  the  fashion 
which  prevails  among  editors  and  critics  of  Villon,  of  sin- 
gling out  certain  parts  of  his  work,  notably  his  Ballads,  for 


INTRODUCTION  73 

That  which  perhaps  most  forcibly  strikes  a  reader 
for  the  first  time  studying  Villon's  work  is  the  perfect 
absence  of  all  conventional  restrictions.  He  rejects 
nothing  as  common  or  unclean  and  knows — none 
better — how  to  draw  the  splendid  wonder  of  poetic 
efflorescence  from  the  mangrove  swamps  of  the 
truanderie  and  the  stagnant  marish  of  the  prison  or 
the  brothel.  His  wit  and  pathos  are  like  the  sun, 
which  shines  with  equal  and  impartial  light  upon  the 
evil  and  the  good,  alike  capable  of  illustrating  the 
innocent  sweetness  of  the  spring  and  summer  mead- 
ows and  of  kindling  into  a  glory  of  gold  and  colour 
the  foul  canoi)y  of  smoke  which  overbroods  the  tur- 
moil of  a  great  city.  He  is  equally  at  lioim-  when 
celebrating  tiie  valour  of  the  heroes  of  old  time  or 
when  telling  the  sorry  tragedy  of  some  ne'er-do-weel 
of  his  own  day.  His  spirit  and  tendencj'  are  emi- 
nently romantic,  in  the  sense  that  he  employed  mod- 
ern language  and  modern  resources  to  express  and 
individualise  the  eternal  elements  of  human  interest 
and  human  passion,  as  they  appeared,  moulded  into 
new  shapes  and  invested  with  new  colours  and  char- 
acteristics  by  the   shifting  impulses   and  tendencies 


laudation,  to  the  detriment  of  the  rest  of  his  poems.  No  one 
is  less  inclined  than  myself  to  begrudge  his  splendid  Ballads 
the  full  tribute  of  admiration  they  deserve ;  but,  magnificent 
as  they  are,  it  is  not,  (it  seems  to  me)  in  them,  but  in  the 
body  of  the  Greater  Testament,  that  Villon's  last  word  as  a 
poet  is  to  be  sought.  Here  he  put  forth  his  full  force  and 
it  is  her^  (and  more  especially  in  the  magnificent  passage, 
octaves  xii  to  Ixii  inclusive)  that  his  genius  shines  out  wth 
a  vigour  and  plenitude  thitherto  unexampled  in  French  verse. 
The  long  passage  last  referred  to  is  one  uninterrupted  flow 
of  humour,  satire  and  pathos,  glowing  with  the  most  exquisite 
metaphor  and  expressed  in  a  singularly  terse  and  original 
style;  and  it  seemsto  me  beyond  question  that  this  was,  if  not 
his  last,  at  least  his  most  mature  effort. 


74  INTRODUCTION 

of  his  time.  He  had  indeed,  in  no  ordinary  degree, 
the  capital  qualification  of  the  romantic  poet :  he 
understood  the  splendour  of  modern  things  and  knew 
the  conjurations  which  should  compel  the  coy  spirit 
of  contemporary  beauty  to  cast  off  the  rags  and 
tatters  of  circumstance,  the  low  and  debased  seem- 
ing in  which  it  was  enchanted,  and  flower  forth, 
young,  glorious  and  majestic,  as  the  bewitched  prm- 
cess  in  the  fairy  tale  puts  off  the  aspect  and  vesture 
of  hideous  and  repulsive  eld,  at  the  magic  touch  of 
perfect  love.  The  true  son  of  his  time,  he  rejected 
at  once  and  for  ever,  with  the  unerring  judgment 
of  the  literary  reformer,  the  quaint  formalities  of 
speech,  the  rhetorical  exaggerations  and  limitations 
of  expression  and  the  Chinese  swathing  of  allegory 
and  conceit  that  dwarfed  the  thought  and  deformed 
the  limbs  of  the  verse  of  his  day  and  reduced  the  art 
of  poetry  to  a  kind  of  Tibetan  prayer-wheel,  in 
which  the  advent  of  the  Spring,  the  conflict  of  Love 
and  Honour,  the  cry  of  the  lover  against  the  cruelty 
of  his  mistress  and  the  glorification  of  the  latter  by 
endless  comparison  to  all  things  fit  and  unfit,  were 
ground  up  again  and  again  into  a  series  of  kaleido- 
scojjic  patterns,  wearisome  in  the  sameness  of  their 
mannered  beauty,  from  Avhose  contemplation  one 
rises  with  dazzled  eyes  and  exhausted  sense,  longing 
for  some  cry  of  passion,  some  flower-birth  of  genuine 
sentiment,  to  burst  the  strangling  sheath  of  affecta- 
tion and  prescription.  Before  Villon  the  language  of 
the  poets  of  the  time  had  become  almost  as  pedantic, 
although  not  so  restricted  and  colourless,  as  that  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.     By  dint  of 


INTRODUCTION  7o 

continual  employment  in  the  same  grooves  and  in 
the  same  formal  sense,  the  most  forceful  and  pic- 
turesque words  of  tlie  language  had  almost  ceased 
to  possess  individuality  or  colour:  for  tlie  phos- 
j)horescence  that  springs  from  the  continual  contact 
of  words  with  thought,  and  their  reconstruction  at 
the  stroke  of  passion,  was  wanting,  not  to  be  sup])lied 
or  replaced  by  the  aptest  ingenuity  or  the  most  un- 
tiring wit.  Villon  did  for  French  poetic  speech  that 
whicli  Rabelais  afterwards  performed  for  its  prose 
(and  it  is  a  singular  coincidence,  which  I  believe  has 
not  before  been  remarked,  that  the  father  of  French 
poetry  and  the  father  of  French  prose  were,  as  it 
were,  predestined  to  the  task  they  accomplished  by 
the  name  common  to  both — Francois  or  French  par 
excellence).  He  restored  the  exhausted  literary  lan- 
guage of  his  time  to  youth  and  health  by  infusing 
into  it  to  the  healing  poisons,  the  revivifying  acids 
and  bitters  of  the  popular  speech,  disdaining  no  ma- 
terials that  served  his  purpose,  replacing  the  defunct 
forms  Avith  new  phrases,  new  shapes  were  wrung  from 
the  heart  of  the  spoken  tongue,  plunging  with  auda- 
cious hand  into  the  slang  of  the  tavern  and  the 
brothel,  the  cant  of  the  highway  and  the  prison, 
choosing  from  the  wayside  heap  and  the  street  gutter 
the  neglected  pebbles  and  nodules  in  which  he  alone 
divined  the  liidden  diamonds  and  rubies  of  pic- 
turesque expression,  to  be  polished  and  facetted  into 
glorv  and  beauty  by  the  regenerating  friction  of 
poetic  employment.  None  better  than  he  has  known 
how  to  call  forth  the  electric  flash  which  has  long 
lurked  dormant,  hidden  in  its  separate  polarities,  till 


76  INTRODUCTION 

the  hand  of  genius  should  bring  into  strange  and 
splendid  contact  the  words  which  had  till  then  lain 
apart,  dull  and  lifeless. 

Villon  was  the  first  great  poet  of  the  people:  his 
love  of  the  life  of  common  things,  the  easy  familiarity 
of  the  streets  and  highways,  his  intimate  knowledge 
and  love  of  the  home  and  outdoor  life  of  the  mer- 
chant, the  hawker,  the  artisan,  the  mountebank,  nay, 
even  the  thief,  the  prostitute  and  the  gipsy  of  his 
time,  stand  out  in  unequivocal  characters  from  the 
lineaments  of  his  work.  The  cry  of  the  people  rings 
out  from  his  verse, — that  cry  of  mingled  misery  and 
humour,  sadness  and  cheerfulness,  which,  running 
through  Rabelais  and  Regnier,  was  to  pass  unheeded 
till  it  swelled  into  the  judgment-thunder  of  the  Revo- 
lution. The  sufferings,  the  oppression,  the  bonhomie, 
the  gourmandise,  the  satirical  good-humour  of  that 
French  people  which  has  so  often  been  content  to 
starve  upon  a  jesting  ballad  or  a  mocking  epigram, 
its  gallantry,  its  perspicacity  and  its  innate  lack  of 
reverence  for  all  that  symbolises  an  accepted  order 
of  things, — all  these  stand  out  in  their  natural  col- 
ours, drawn  to  the  life  and  harmonised  into  a  na- 
tional entity,  to  which  the  poet  gives  the  shape  and 
seeming  of  his  own  individuality,  unconscious  that  in 
relating  his  own  hardships,  his  own  sufferings,  regrets 
and  aspirations,  he  was  limning  for  us  the  typefied 
and  foreshortened  image  and  presentment  of  a  nation 
at  a  cardinal  epoch  of  national  regeneration.  "He 
builded  better  than  he  knew."  His  poems  are  a  very 
album  of  types  and  figures  of  the  day.  As  we  read, 
the  narrow,  gabled  streets,  with  their  graven  niches 
for  saint  and  Virgin  and  their  monumental  fountains 


INTRODUCTION 


t  I 


stemming  the  stream  of  traffic,  rise  before  us,  gay 
with  endless  movement  of  fur  and  satin  clad  demoi- 
selles, "ruffed  and  rebatoed,"  with  their  heart  or 
diamond  shaped  head-dresses  of  velvet  and  brocade, 
.^ringed  and  broidcred  with  gold  and  silver ;  sad- 
coloured  burghers  and  their  wives  distinguished  by 
the  bongrace  or  chaperon  a  bourrelet,  with  its  rolled 
and  stuffed  hem;  gold-laced  archers  and  jaunty 
clerks,  whistling  for  lustihead,  with  the  long-peaked 
hood  or  liripipe  falling  over  their  shoulders  and  the 
short  bright-coloured  walking-cloak  letting  pass  the 
glittering  point  of  the  dirk ;  shaven,  down-looking 
monks,  "breeched  and  booted  like  oyster-fishers,"  and 
barefooted  friars,  purple-gilled  with  secret  and  un- 
hallowed debauchery ;  light  o'  loves,  distinguished  by 
the  tall  helm  or  hennin  and  the  gaudily  coloured 
tight-fitting  surcoat,  square-cut  to  show  the  breasts, 
over  the  sheath-like  petticoat,  crossed  by  the  demi- 
cinct  or  chatelaine  of  silver,  followed  b}'  their 
esquires  or  bullies  armed  with  sword  and  buckler ; 
artisans  in  their  jerkins  of  green  cloth  or  russet 
leather ;  barons  and  lords  in  the  midst  of  their  pages 
and  halberdiers  ;  ruffling  gallants,  brave  in  velvet  and 
embroidery,  with  their  boots  of  soft  tan-coloured  cor- 
dovan falling  jauntily  over  the  instep;  as  they  press 
through  a  motley  crowd  of  beggars  and  mounte- 
banks, jugglers  with  their  apes  and  carpet,  culs-de- 
jatte,  lepers  with  clapdish  and  wallet,  mumpers  and 
chanters,  truands  and  gipsies,  jesters,  fish-fags,  cut- 
purses  and  swash-bucklers,  that  rings  anon  with  the 
shout  of  "Noel!  Noel!"  as  Charles  VH  rides  by, 
surrounded  by  his  heralds  and  pursuivants,  or  Louis 
passes  with  no  attendants  save  his  two  dark  bench- 


78  IxNTRODUCTION 

men,  Tristan  the  Hermit  and  Oliver  the  Fiend,  and 
nothing  to  distinguish  him  from  the  burghers  with 
whom  he  rubs  elbows  save  the  row  of  images  in  his 
hat  and  the  eternal  menace  of  his  unquiet  eye.  Anon 
we  see  the  interior  of  the  convent  church  at  vespers, 
with  its  kneeling  crowd  of  worshippers  and  its  gold- 
grounded  frescoes  of  heaven  and  hell,  martyrdom  and 
apotheosis,  glittering  vaguely  from  the  swart  shadow 
of  the  aisles.  The  choir  peals  out  and  the  air  gathers 
into  a  mist  with  incense,  what  while  an  awe-stricken 
old  woman  kneels  apart  before  the  altar  in  the  Vir- 
gin's chapel,  praying  for  that  scapegrace  son  who 
has  caused  her  such  bitter  tears  and  such  poignant 
terrors.  Outside,  on  the  church  steps,  sit  the  gos- 
sips, crouched  by  twos  and  threes  on  the  hem  of  their 
robes,  chattering  in  that  fluent  Parisian  speech  to 
which  the  Parisian  poet  gives  precedence  over  all 
others.  The  night  closes  in;  the  dim  cressets  swing 
creaking  in  the  wind  from  the  ropes  that  stretch 
across  the  half-deserted  streets,  whilst  the  belated 
students  hurry  past  to  their  colleges,  with  hoods 
drawn  closely  over  their  faces  "and  thumbs  in  girdle- 
gear,"  and  the  sergeants  of  the  watch  pace  solemnly 
by,  lantern-pole  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  the 
halberd  wherewith  they  stir  up  the  shivering  wretches 
crouched  for  shelter  under  the  abandoned  stalls 
of  the  street  hawkers  or  draw  across  the  ways  the 
chains  that  shall  break  the  escape  of  the  nocturnal 
brawler  or  the  stealthy  thief.  Thence  to  the  Puppet 
wine-shop,  where  truand  and  light  o'  love,  student 
and  soldier,  hold  high  revel,  amidst  the  clink  of 
beakers  and  the  ever-recurring  sound  of  clashing 
daggers   and  angry  voices ;   or  the   more   reputable 


INTRODUCTION  79 

tavern  of  the  Pomnie  de  Pin,  where  sits  Master 
Jacques  Raguycr,  swathed  in  his  warm  rnantle,  witli 
his  feet  to  the  hhi/e  and  his  back  resting  against 
the  piles  of  faggots  that  tower  in  the  chimney-cor- 
ner ;  or  tlie  street  in  front  of  the  Chatelet,  where  wo 
find  ^'^]lon  gazing  upon  the  great  flaring  cressets  that 
give  liglit  over  the  gateway  of  tlie  ])rison  with  whose 
interior  he  was  so  well  acquainted.  Anon  we  come 
upon  him,  watching  Avith  yearning  eyes  and  watering 
mouth,  through  some  half-open  window  or  door- 
chink,  the  roaring  carouses  of  the  debauched  monks 
and  nuns,  or  listening  to  the  talk  of  La  Belle  Heaul- 
miere  and  lier  companions  in  old  age,  as  they  crouch 
on  the  floor,  under  their  curtains  spun  by  the  spiders, 
telling  tales  of  the  good  times  gone  by,  in  the  scanty 
short-lived  flicker  of  their  fire  of  dried  hempstalks. 
Presently,  Master  Jehan  Cotard  staggers  past,  stum- 
bling against  the  projecting  stalls  and  roaring  out 
some  ranting  catch  or  jolly  drinking-song,  and  the 
bully  of  La  Grosse  Margot  hies  him,  pitcher  in  hand, 
to  the  Tankard  Tavern,  to  fetch  wine  and  victual  for 
his  clients.  Anon  the  moon  rises,  high  and  calm, 
over  the  still  churchyard  of  the  Innocents,  where  the 
quiet  dead  lie  sleeping  soundly  in  the  deserted  char- 
uels,  ladies  and  lords,  masters  and  clerks,  bishops 
and  water-carriers,  all  laid  low  in  undistinguished 
abasement  before  the  equality  of  death.  Once  more, 
the  scene  changes  and  we  stand  by  the  thieves'  ren- 
dezvous in  the  ruined  castle  of  Bicetre  or  by  the 
lonely  gibbet  of  jNIontfaucon,  where  the  poet  wanders 
in  the  "silences  of  the  moon,"  watching  with  a  terri- 
fied fascination  the  shrivelled  corpses  or  whitened 
skeletons  of  his  whilom  comrades,  as  they  creak  sul- 


80  INTRODUCTION 

lenly  to  and  fro  in  the  gliastly  aureole  of  the  mid- 
night star.  All  Paris  of  the  fifteenth  century  relives 
in  the  vivid  hurry  of  his  verse:  one  hears  in  his 
stanzas  the  very  popular  cries  and  watchwords  of 
the  street  and  the  favourite  oaths  of  the  gallants  and 
women  of  the  day.  We  feel  that  all  the  world  is 
centred  for  him  in  Paris  and  that  there  is  no  land- 
scape can  compare  for  him  with  those  "paj'^sages  de 
metal  et  de  pierre"  which  he  (in  common  with  an- 
other ingrain  Parisian,  Baudelaire)  so  deeply  loved. 
Much  as  he  must  have  wandered  over  France,  we  find 
in  his  Averse  no  hint  of  natural  beauty,  no  syllables 
of  description  of  landscape  or  natural  objects.  In 
these  things  he  had  indeed  no  interest :  flowers  and 
stars,  sun  and  moon,  spring  and  summer,  unrolled 
in  vain  for  him  their  phantasmagoria  of  splendour 
and  enchantment  over  earth  and  sky :  men  and  women 
were  his  flowers  and  the  crowded  streets  of  the  great 
city  the  woods  and  meadows  wherein,  after  his  fash- 
ion, he  worshipped  beauty  and  did  homage  to  art. 
Indeed,  he  was  essentiallv  "the  man  of  the  crowd:'* 
his  heart  throbbed  ever  in  unison  with  the  mass,  in 
joy  or  sadness,  crime  or  passion,  lust  or  patriotism, 
aspiration  or  degradation. 

It  is  astonishing,  in  the  midst  of  the  fantastic  and 
artificial  rhymers  of  the  time,  how  quickly  the  chord 
of  sensibility  in  our  poet  vibrates  to  the  broad  im- 
pulses of  humanity ;  how,  untainted  by  the  selfish 
provincialism  of  his  day,  his  heart  warms  towards 
the  great  patriot,  Jacques  Coeur,  and  sorrows  over 
his  disgrace ;  how  he  appreciates  the  heroism  of 
Jeanne  d'Arc  and  denounces  y)enalty  upon  penalty, 
that  remind  us  of  the  70,000  pains  of  fire  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  81 

Arabian  legend,  u})on  the  traitors  and  rebels  '*who 
would  wish  ill  unto  the  realm  of  France ;"  with  what 
largeness  of  sympathy  he  anticipates  the  modern 
tenderness  over  the  fallen  and  demonstrates  how  they 
"were  once  honest,  verily,"  till  Love,  that  befools 
us  all,  beguiled  them  to  the  first  step  upon  the  down- 
ward road ;  with  what  observant  compassion  he  notes 
the  silent  regrets  of  the  old  and  the  poignant  remem- 
brances of  those  for  whom  all  things  fair  have  faded 
out,  glosing  with  an  iron  pathos  upon  the  "nessun 
maggior  dolore"  of  Dante,  in  the  terrible  stanzas 
that  enshrine,  in  pearls  and  rubies  of  tears  and 
blood,  the  passion  and  the  anguish,  the  "agony  and 
bloody  sweat"  of  La  Belle  Hcaulmicre. 

The  keenness  of  his  pathos  and  the  delicacy  of  his 
grace  are  as  supreme  as  what  one  of  his  commenta- 
tors magnificently  calls  "the  sovereign  rudeness"  of 
his  satire.  When  he  complains  to  his  unyielding 
mistress  of  her  "hypocrite  douceur"  and  her  "felon 
charms,"  "la  mort  d'un  pauvre  coeur,"  and  warns  her 
of  the  inevitable  approach  of  the  days  when  youth 
and  beauty  shall  no  more  remain  to  her,  we  seem 
to  hear  a  robuster  Ronsard  sighing  out  his  "Cueillez, 
cueillez  votre  jeunesse;"  when  he  laments  for  the 
death  of  Master  Ythier's  beloved,  "Two  were  we,  hav- 
ing but  one  heart,"  we  must  turn  to  ]\Iariana's  wail 
of  wistful  yet  undespitcous  passion  for  a  sweeter 
lyric  of  regretful  tenderness,  a  more  pathetic  dal- 
liance with  the  simpleness  of  love;  and  when  he 
appeals  from  the  dungeon  of  ^Icung  or  pictures 
himself  and  his  companions  swinging  from  the  gibbet 
of  Montfaucon,  the  tears  that  murmur  through  the 
fantastic  fretwork  of  the  verse  are  instinct  with  the 


82  INTRODUCTION 

salt  of  blood  and  the  bitterness  of  death.  Where 
shall  we  look  for  a  more  poignant  pathos  than  that 
of  his  lament  for  his  lost  youth  or  his  picture  of  tlio 
whilom  gallants  of  his  early  memories  that  now  be.fj 
all  naked,  seeing  no  crumb  of  bread  but  in  some 
window-})lace?  Where  a  nobler  height  of  contem- 
plation than  that  to  which  he  rises,  as  he  formulates 
the  unalterable  laws  that  make  king  and  servant, 
noble  and  villein,  equal  in  abasement  before  the  tu)- 
bending  majesty  of  death,  or  a  holier  purity  of 
religious  exaltation  than  breathes  from  the  ballad 
wherein,  with  the  truest  instinct  of  genius,  using  that 
mother's  voice  which  cannot  but  be  the  surest  pass- 
port to  the  divine  compassion,  he  soars  to  the  very 
gates  of  heaven  on  the  star-sown  wings  of  faith  and 
song?  He  is  one  more  instance  of  the  potentiality 
of  grace  and  jjathos  that  often  lurks  in  natures  dis- 
tinguished chiefly  for  strength  and  passion.  Like 
the  great  realistic  poet  *  of  nineteenth-century 
France,  he  knew  how  to  force  death  and  horror  to 
give  up  for  him  their  hidden  beauties  ;  and  if  his  own 
Fleurs  du  Mai  are  often  instinct  with  the  poison^ 
that  suggest  the  marshy  and  miasmatic  nature  of  the 
soil  to  which  they  owe  their  resplendent  colourings, 
yet  the  torrent  of  satire,  mockery  and  invective,  that 
laves  their  tangled  roots,  is  often  over-arched  with 
the  subtlest  and  brightest  irises  of  pure  pathos  and 
delicate  sentiment.  "Out  of  the  strong  cometh  sweet- 
ness," and  in  few  poets  has  the  pregnant  fable  of 
the  honeycomb  in  the  lion's  mouth  been  more  forcibly 
exemplified  than  in  Villon. 

Humour  is  with  Villon  no  less  pronounced  a  char- 


*  Baudelaire. 


INTRODUCTION  83 

acteristic  than  pathos.  Unstrained  and  genuine,  it 
arises  inainlv  from  the  continual  contrast  between 
the  abasement  of  his  life  and  the  worthlessness  of  its 
possibilities  and  the  passionate  and  ardent  nature  of 
the  man.  He  seems  to  be  always  in  a  state  of 
humorous  astonishment  at  his  own  mad  career  and 
Ihe  |)er})etual  per])lexities  into  which  his  folly  and 
recklessness  have  betrayed  him ;  and  this  fcclin^^  con- 
stantly overpowers  his  underlying  remorse  and  the 
angiiish  which  he  suffers  under  the  pressure  of  the 
deplorable  circumstances  wherein  he  continually  finds 
himself  involved.  The  spi^l-trieh  or  sport-impulse, 
which  has  been  pronounced  the  highest  attribute  of 
genius,  stands  out  with  a  rare  prominence  from  his 
character,  never  to  be  altogether  suppressed  by  the 
most  overwhelming  calamities.  The  most  terrible 
and  ghastly  surroundings  of  circumstance  cannot 
avail  wholly  to  arrest  the  ever-springing  fountain  of 
wit  and  bonhomie  that  wells  up  from  the  inmost 
nature  of  the  man.  In  the  midst  of  all  his  miseries, 
with  his  tears  yet  undried,  he  mocks  at  himself  and 
others  with  an  astounding  good-humour.  In  the 
dreary  dungeon  of  the  Meung  moat  we  find  him 
bandying  jests  with  his  own  personified  remorse; 
and  even  whilst  awaiting  a  shameful  death,  he  seeks 
consolation  in  the  contemplation  of  the  comic  aspects 
of  his  situation,  as  he  wMll  presently  appear,  upright 
in  the  air,  swinging  at  the  wind's  will,  with  face  like 
a  thimble  for  bird-pecks  and  skirl  blackened  of  "that 
ill  sun  which  tans  a  man  when  he  is  dead."  It  is  a 
foul  death  to  die,  he  says,  yet  we  must  all  die  some 
day,  and  it  matters  little  whether  we  then  find  our- 
selves a  lord  rotting  in  a  splendid  sepulchre  or  a.  cut- 


84  INTRODUCTION 

purse  strung  up  on  Montfaucon  hill.  He  laughs  at 
his  own  rascality  and  poverty,  lustfulness  and  glut- 
tony, with  an  unexampled  naivete  of  candour,  singu- 
larly free  from  cynicism,  yet  always  manages  to  con- 
ciliate our  sympathies  and  induce  our  pity  rather 
than  our  reprobation.  "It  is  not  to  poor  wretches 
like  us,"  says  he,  "that  are  naked  as  a  snake,  sad 
at  heart  and  empty  of  paunch,  that  you  should 
preach  virtue  and  temperance.  As  for  us,  God  give 
us  patience.  You  would  do  better  to  address  your- 
selves to  incite  great  lords  and  masters  to  good 
deeds,  who  eat  and  drink  of  the  best  every  day  and 
are  more  open  to  exhortation  than  beggars  like  our- 
selves that  cease  never  from  want." 

His  faith  in  the  saving  virtues  of  meat  and  drink 
is  both  droll  and  touching.  One  feels,  in  all  his 
verse,  the  distant  and  yearning  respect  with  which 
the  starveling  poet  regards  all  manner  of  victual,  as 
he  enumerates  its  various  incarnations  in  a  kind  of 
litany  or  psalm  of  adorations,  in  which  they  resemble 
the  denominations  and  attributes  of  saints  and  mar- 
tyrs to  whom  he  knelt  in  unceasing  and  ineffectual 
prayer.  Wines,  hypocras,  roast  meats,  sauces, 
soups,  custards,  tarts,  eggs,  pheasants,  partridges, 
plovers,  pigeons,  capons,  fat  geese,  pies,  cakes,  fur- 
menty,  t  reams,  pasties  and  other  "savoureux  et 
friands  morceaux"  defile  in  long  and  picturesque  pro- 
cession through  his  verse,  like  a  dissolving  view  of 
Paradise,  before  whose  gates  he  knelt  and  longed  in 
vain.  His  ideal  of  perfect  happiness  is  to  "break 
bread  with  both  hands,"  a  potentiality  of  ecstatic 
bliss  which  he  attributes  to  the  friars  of  the  four 
mendicant  orders :  no  delights  of  love  or  pastoral 


INTRODUCTION  85 

sweetness,  "not  all  the  birds  that  singen  all  the  way 
from  here  to  Babylon"  (as  he  says)  could  induce 
him  to  spend  one  day  amid  the  hard  lyinnr  and  sober 
fare  of  a  country  life ;  and  the  only  enemy  whom  he 
refuses  to  forgive  at  his  last  hour  is  the  Bishop  of 
Orleans,  who  fed  him  so  scurvily  a  whole  summer 
long  upon  cold  water  and  dry  bread  (not  even  man- 
chets,  says  he  piteously).  If  he  cannot  come  at  his 
desii'e  in  the  possession  of  the  dainties  for  which  his 
soul  longs,  there  is  still  some  sad  pleasure  for  him  in 
caressing  in  imagination  the  sacrosanct  denomina- 
tions of  that  "bien-heureux  harmoys  de  gueule," 
which  hovers  for  him,  afar  off,  in  the  rosy  mists  of 
an  apotheosis.  In  this  respect,  as  in  no  few  others, 
he  forcibly  reminds  one  of  another  strange  and  note- 
worthy figure  converted  by  genius  into  an  eternal 
type,  that  Neveu  de  Rameau,  in  whom  the  reducfio 
od  ahsurdum  of  the  whole  sensualist  ])hilosoph3'  of 
the  eighteenth  century  was  crystallised  by  Diderot 
into  so  poignant  and  curious  a  personality.  Like 
Jean  Rameau,  the  whole  mystery  of  life  seems  for 
Villon  to  have  resolved  itself  into  the  cabalistic 
science  "de  mettrc  sous  la  dent,"  that  noble  and 
abstract  art  of  providing  for  the  repai  iHon  of  the 
region  below  the  nose,  of  whose  alcahest  and  hermetic 
essence  he  so  deplorably  fell  short;  and  as  we  make 
this  unavoidable  comparison,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
be  surprised  into  regret  for  the  absence  of  some 
Diderot  who  might,  in  like  manner,  have  rescued  for 
us  the  singular  individuality  of  the  bohemian  poet  of 
the  fifteenth  century. 

With  all  his  faults,  a  most  sympathetic  and  attrac- 
tive personality  detaches  itself  from  the  unsparing 


86  INTRODUCTION 

candour  of  his  confessions.     One  cannot  help  loving 
the  frank,  witty,  devil-may-care  poet,  with  his  ready 
tears  and  his  as  ready  laughter,  his  large  compas- 
sion for  all  pitiable  and  his  unaffected  sympathy  with 
all  noble  things.     Specially  attractive  is  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  good-humour :  so  devoid  of  gall  is  he  that 
he  seems  to  cherish  no  enduring  bitterness   against 
his  most  cruel  enemies,  content  if  he  can  make  them 
the  subject  of  some  passing  jest  or  some  merry  piece 
of  satire.     He  has  no  serious  reproach  for  the  cold- 
hearted  woman  to  whom  he  attributes  his  misspent 
life  and  early  death,  nor  does  he  allow  himself  the 
solace  of  one  bitter  Avord  against  the  cruel  creditors 
who  seized  the  moment  of  his  deliverance  from  IVIeung 
gaol,  exhausted,  emaciated  and  dying,  to  strip  him  of 
the  little  that  he  possessed.      Thibault  d'Aussign}^ 
the  author  of  his  duresse  in  Meung  gaol,  and  Fran- 
9ois  Perdryer,  at  the  nature  of  whose  offence  against 
him  we  can  only  guess,  are  the  only  ones  he  cannot 
forgive,  and  his  invectives  against  the  former  are  of 
a  half-burlesque  character,  that  permits  us  to  sus- 
pect  a  humorous   exaggeration   in   their  unyielding 
bitterness. 

Lookino"  at  the  whole  course  of  Villon's  life  and 
at  the  portrait  which  he  himself  paints  for  us  in 
such  crude  and  unsparing  colours,  we  can  hardly 
doubt  that,  under  different  circumstances,  had  his 
life  been  consecrated  by  successful  love  and  the  hope 
of  those  higher  things  to  whose  nobility  he  was  so 
keenly  though  unpractically  sensitive,  he  might  have 
filled  a  worthier  place  in  the  history  of  his  time  and 
have  furnished  a  more  honourable  career  than  that 
of  the  careless  bohemian,  driven  into  crime,  disgrace 


IXTRODUCTION  87 

and  luin  by  the  double  liifluenco  of  his  own  un- 
cliecked  desires  and  the  maddening  wistfulness  of  an 
unrequited  love.  Still,  whatever  effect  change  of 
circumstance  might  have  liad  in  the  jjossible  enno- 
bling of  the  sorry  melodrama  of  his  life,  we  at  least 
cannot  complain  of  the  influences  that  presided  over 
the  accomplishment  of  his  destiny ;  for  they  resulted 
in  ripening  and  developing  the  genius  of  a  great  and 
uni(i|ue  poet.  The  world  of  posterity  is  always  and 
rightly  ready  to  acce])t  the  fact  of  a  great  artistic 
personality,  even  at  the  expense  of  morality  and 
decency ;  and  instances  are  not  wanting  in  whicl; 
moral  and  material  amelioration  has  destroyed  the 
mustard-seed  of  genius,  that  poverty  and  distress, 
those  rude  and  sober  nurses,  might  have  fostered  into 
a  mighty  tree,  giving  shelter  and  comfort  to  all  who 
took  refuge  under  its  branches.  To  quote  once  more 
tlie  words  of  the  greatest  critic  *  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  "We  might  perhaps  have  lost  the  poet, 
whilst  gaining  the  honest  man  ;  and  good  poets  are 
still  rarer  than  honest  folk,  though  the  latter  can 
scarce  be  said  to  be  too  common." 


*  Theophile  Gautier. 


THE  LESSER  TESTAMENT 


Here   Beginneth   the   Lesser   Testamont 

OF 

Master  FRAN901S  Villon 


This  fourteen  six  and  fiftieth  year, 
I,  Francois  Villon,  clerk  that  be, 

Considering,  with  senses  clear, 

Bit  betwixt  teeth  and  collar-free, 
That  one  must  needs  look  orderly 

Unto  his  works   (as  counselleth 
Vcgetius,  wise  Roman  he). 

Or  else  amiss  one  reckoneth, — 


II 


In  this  year,  as  before  I  said, 

Hard  by  the  dead  of  Christmas-time, 
Wlien  upon  wind  the  wolves  are  fed 

And  for  the  rigour  of  the  rime 

One  hugs  the  hearth  from  none  to  prime, 
Wish  came  to  me  to  break  the  stress 

Of  that  most  dolorous  prison-clime 
Wherein  Love  held  me  in  duresse. 

91 


92  VILLON'S  POEMS 


III 


Unto  this  fashion  am  I  bent, 
Seeing  my  lady,  'ncath  my  eyes, 

To  my  undoing  give  consent, 
Sans  gain  to  her  in  any  wise: 
Whereof  I  plain  me  to  the  skies, 

Requiring  vengeance  (her  desert) 
Of  all  the  gods  with  whom  it  lies. 

And  of  Love,  healing  for  my  hurt. 


IV 


If  to  my  gree,  alack,  I  read 

Those  dulcet  looks  and  semblants  fair 
Of  such  deceitful  goodlihead, 

That  pierced  me  to  the  heart  whilere. 

Now  in  the  lurch  they've  left  me  bare 
And  failed  me  at  my  utmost  need: 

Fain  must  I  plant  it  otherwhere 
And  in  fresh  furrows  strike  my  seed. 


She  that  hath  bound  me  with  her  eyes 
(Alack,  how  fierce  and  fell  to  me!), 

Without  my  fault  in  any  wise. 

Wills  and  ordains  that  I  should  dree 
Death  and  leave  life  and  liberty. 

Help  see  I  none,  save  flight  alone: 

She  breaks  the  bonds  betwixt  her  and  me 

Nor  hearkens  to  my  piteous  moan. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  93 


VI 


To  'scape  the  ills  that  hem  me  round. 
It  were  the  wiser  to  dej)art. 

Adieu !     To  Angers  I  am  bound, 
Since  she  I  love  will  nor  impart 
Her  grace  nor  any  of  her  heart. 

I  die — with  body  whole  enough — 

For  her;  a  martyr  to  Love's  smart, 

Enrolled  among  the  saints  thereof. 


vn 


Sore  though  it  be  to  part  from  her, 

Needs  must  I  go  without  delay. 
(How  hard  my  poor  sense  is  to  stir!) 

Other  than  I  with  her's  in  play ; 

Whence  never  Bullen  herring  aye 
Was  drouthier  of  case  than  I. 

A  sorry  business,  wellaway, 
It  is  for  me,  God  hear  my  cry! 

vni 

And  since  (need  being  on  me  laid) 
I  go  and  haply  never  may 

Again  return,  (not  being  made 
Of  steel  or  bronze  or  other  way 
Than  other  men:  life  but  a  day 

Lasteth  and  death  knows  no  relent)  ; 
For  me,  I  journey  far  away : 

Wherefore  I  make  this  Testament. 


94  VILLON'S  POEMS 


DC 


First,  in  the  name  of  God  the  Lord, 
The  Son  and  eke  the  Holy  Spright, 

And  in  her  name  by  whose  accord 
No  creature  perisheth  outright, 
To  Master  Villon,  Guillaumc  hight. 

My  fame  I  leave,  that  still  doth  swell 
In  his  name's  honour  day  and  night, 

And  eke  my  tents  and  pennoncel. 


Item,  to  her,  who,  as  I've  said. 
So  dourly  banished  me  her  sight 

That  all  my  gladness  she  forbade 
And  ousted  me  of  all  delight, 
I  leave  my  heart  in  deposite. 

Piteous  and  pale  and  numb  and  dead. 
She  brought  me  to  this  sorry  pligkt: 

May  God  not  wreak  it  on  her  head! 


XI 


Item,  my  trenchant  sword  of  steel 

I  leave  to  Master  Ythier 
Marchant — to  whom  myself  I  feel 

No  little  bounden, — that  he  may, 

According  to  my  will,  defray 
The  scot  for  which  in  pawn  it  lies 

(Six  sols),  and  then  the  sword  convey 
To  Jehan  le  Cornu,  free  of  price. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  95 


xn 


Item,  I  leave  to  Saint  Aniand 

The  Mule  and  eke  the  Charger  White; 
And  to  Blaru,  my  Diamond 

And  Jibbing  Ass  with   stripes   bedight; 

And  the  decretal,  too,  that  hight 
Onmis  utrius— that,  to  wit, 

Known  as  the  counter-Carmelite — 
Unto  the  priests  I  do  commit. 


xin 


To  Jehan  Tronne,  butcher,  I  devise 
The  Wether  lusty  and  unpolled 

And  Gad  to  whisk  away  the  flies, 

With  the  Crowned  Ox,  that's  to  be  sold. 
And  Cow,  whereon  the  churl  hath  hold, 

To  hoist  it  on  his  back.     If  he 

To  keep  the  beast  himself  make  bold. 

Trussed  up  and  strangled  let  him  be. 


XIV 


To  master  Robert  Vallee  (who, 
Poor  clerkling  to  the  Parliament, 

Owns  valley  neither  hill,)  I  do 
W^ill  first,  by  this  my  Testament, 
My  hose  be  giy'n  incontinent. 

Which  on  the  clothes-pegs  hang,  that  he 
May  tire  withal,  'tis  my  intent, 

His  mistress  Jehanne  more  decently. 


96  VILLON'S  POEMS 


XV 


But  since  he  is  of  good  extract, 

Needs  must  he  better  guerdoned  be 
(For  God  His  Law  doth  so  enact) 

Though  featherbrained  withal  is  he; 

The}^  shall,  I  have  bethoughten  me, 
Since  in  liis  pate  he  hatli  no  sense, 

Give  him  the  Art  of  Memorv, 
To  be  ta'en  up  from  Misprepense. 


XVI 


And  thirdly,  for  the  liveliliood 

Of  Master  Robert  aforesaid 
(My  kin,  for  God's  sake,  hold  it  good!) 

Be  money  of  my  hauberk  made 

And  (or  most  part  thereof)  outlaid, 
Ere  Easter  pass,  in  purchasing 

(Hard  by  St.  Jacques)  a  shop  and  trade 
For  the  poor  witless  lawyerling. 

XVII 

Item,  my  gloves  and  silken  hood 

My  friend  Jacques  Cardon,  I  declare, 
Shall  have  in  fair  free  gift  for  good; 

Also  the  acorns  willows  bear 

And  every  day  a  capon  fair 
Or  goose ;  likewise  a  tenfold  vat 

Of  chalk-white  wine,  besides  a  pair 
Or  lawsuits,  lest  he  wax  too  fat. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  $7. 

XVIII 

Item,  a  leash  of  dogs  I  giva 

To  young  Rene  de  Montigny; 
And  let  Jehan  Raguyer  receive 

One  hundred  francs,  shall  levied  be 

On  all  my  goods.     But  soft;  to  me 
Scant  gain  therefrom  I  apprehend: 

One  should  not  strip  one's  own,  perdie, 
Nor  over-ask  it  of  one's  friend, 

XIX 

Item,  to  Baron  de  Grigny 

The  ward  and  keeping  of  Nygeon, 
With  six  dogs  more  than  Montigny, 

And  Bicetre,  castle  and  donjon; 

And  to  that  scurvy  knave  Changoa, 
A  spy  that  holds  him  still  in  strife. 

Three  strokes  of  withy  well  laid  on 
And  prison-lodging  all  his  life. 


XX 


Item,  I  leave  Jacques  Raguyer 

The  'Puppet'  Cistern,  peach  and  pear. 

Perch,  chickens,  custards,  night  and  day, 
At  the  Great  Figtree  choice  of  fare 
And  eke  the  Fircone  Tavern,  where 

He  may  sit,  cloaked  in  cloth  of  frieze, 
Feet  to  the  fire  and  back  to  chair, 

And  let  the  world  wag  at  his  ease. 


98  VILLON'S  POExAlS 

XXI 

Item,  to  John  the  foul  of  face 

And  Peter  Tanner  I  devise, 
Bj  way  of  gift,  that  baron's  grace 

That  punishes  all  felonies ; 

To  Fournier,  my  proctor  wise, 
Leather  cut  out  for  caps  and  shoes. 

That  now  at  the  cordwainer's  lies, 
For  him  these  frosty  days  to  use. 

XXII 

The  Captain  of  the  Watch,  also. 

Shall  have  the  Helmet,  in  full  right; 

And  to  the  crimps,  that  cat-foot  go, 
A-fumbling  in  the  stalls  by  night, 
I  leave  two  rubies,  clear  and  bright, 

The  Lantern  of  La  Pierre  au  Lait. 

'Deed,  the  Three  Lilies  have  I  might, 

Haled  they  me  to  the  Chatelet. 

XXIII 

To  Pernet  Marchand,  eke,  in  fee, 
(Bastard  of  Bar  by  sobriquet) 

For  that  a  good-cheap  man  is  he, 
I  give  three  sheaves  of  straw  or  hay. 
Upon  the  naked  floor  to  lay 

And  so  the  amorous  trade  to  ply. 
For  that  he  knows  no  other  way 

Or  art  to  get  his  living  by. 


VILLON'S  rOKMS  99 


XXIV 


Item,  to  Chollet  I  bequeath 

And  Louj),  a  duck,  once  in  a  way 

Caught  as  of  old  the  walls  beneath 

L'pon  the  moat,  towards  end  of  day ; 
And  each  a  friar's  gown  of  gray — 

Such  as  fall  down  beneath  the  knees — 
My  boots  with  uppers  worn  away, 

And   charcoal,  wood,   bacon  and  peas. 


XXV 


Item,  this  trust  I  do  declare 

For  three  poor  children  named  below: 
Three  little  orplians   lone  and  bare. 

That  hungry  and  unshodden  go 

And  naked  to  all  winds  that  blow ; 
That  they  may  be  provided  for 

And  sheltered  from  the  rain  and  snow, 
At  least  until  this  winter's  o'er. 


XXVI 


To  Colin  Laurens,  Jehan  Moreau 
And  Girard  Gossain,  having  ne'er 

A  farthing's  worth  of  substance,  no, 
Nor  kith  nor  kindred  anywhere, 
I  leave,  at  option,  each  a  share 

Of  goods  or  else  four  blanks  once  told. 
Full  merrily  they  thus  shall  fare. 

Poor  sillv  souls,  when  thev  are  old. 


100  VILLON'S  POEMS 


XXVII 


Item,  my  right  of  nomination 

Holden  of  the  L^nivcrsity, 
I  leave,  by  way  of  resignation. 

To  rescue  from  adversity 

Poor  clerks  that  of  this  city  be, — 
Hereunder  named,  for  very  ruth 

That  thereunto  incited  me. 
Seeing  them  naked  all  as  Truth. 


XXVIII 


Their  names  are  Thibault  de  Vitry 
And  Guillaume  Cotin — peaceable 

Poor  wights,  that  humble  scholars  be. 
Latin  they  featly  speak  and  spell 
And  at  the  lectern  sing  right  well. 

I  do  devise  to  them  in  fee 

(Till  better  fortune  with  them  dwell) 

A  rent-charge  on  the  pillory. 


XXIX 


Item,  the  Crozier  of  the  street 
Of  St.  Antoinc  I  do  ordain, 

Also  a  cue  wherewith  folk  beat 
And  every  day  full  pot  of  Seine 
To  those  that  in  the  trap  are  ta'en, 

Bound  hand  and  foot  in  close  duresse; 
My  mirror  eke  and  grace  to  gain 

The  favours  of  the  gaoleress. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  101 


XXX 


Item,  I  leave  the  hospitals 

My  curtains  spun  the  spiders  by ; 

And  to  the  lodgers  'neath  the  stalls 
Each  one  a  buffet  on  the  eye 
And  leave  to  tremble,  as  they  lie, 

Bruised,  frozen,  drenched,  unshorn  and  lean, 
With  hose  shrunk  half  way  up  the  thigh, 

Gowns  all  to-clipt  and  woeful  mien. 

XXXI 

Unto  my  barber  I  devise 

The  ends  and  clippings  of  my  hair; 
Item,  on  charitable  wise, 

I  leave  my  old  boots,  every  pair, 

Unto  the  cobbler  and  declare 
My  clothes  the  broker's,  so  these  two 

May  when  I'm  dead  my  leavings  share, 
For  less  than  what  they  cost  when  new. 

xxxn 

Unto  the  begging  Orders  four, 

The  nuns  and  sisters  (tidbits  they 
Dainty  and  prime)  I  leave  and  store 

Of  flawns,  poults,  capons,  so  the}'  may 
Break  bread  with  both  hands  night  and  day 

And  eke  the  fifteen  Signs  declare: 
Monks  court  our  neighbours'  wives,  folk  say, 

But  that  is  none  of  mv  affair. 


102  VILLON'S  POEMS 


XXXIII 


To  John  o'  Guard,  that  grocer  hight. 

The  Golden  Mortar  I  make  o'er, 
To  grind  his  mustard  in  aright ; 

Also  a  pestle  from  St.  Maur; 

And  unto  him  that  goes  before, 
To  lay  one  by  the  legs  in  quod, 

St.  Anthony   roast  him  full  sore! 
I'll  leave  him  nothing  else,  by  God. 


XXXIV 


Item,  to  Mairebcuf,  as  well 

As  Nicholas  de  Louvieux, 
Each  one  I  leave  a  whole  eggshell 

Full  of  old  crowns  and  francs,  and  io 

The  seneschal  of  Gouvieux, 
Peter  de  Ronseville,  no  less : 

Such  crowns  I  mean,  to  tell  you  true. 
As  the  prince  giveth  for  largesse. 


xxxv 


Finally,  being  here  alone 

To-night  and  in  good  trim  to  write, 
I  heard  the  clock  of  the  Sorbonne, 

That  aye  at  nine  o'clock  of  night 

Is  wont  the  Angelus  to  smite: 
Then  I  my  task  did  intermit. 

That  to  our  Lady  mild  I  might 
Do  suit  and  service,  as  is  fit. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  103 

XXXVI 

This  done,  I  half  forgot  myself, 
What  while  I  felt  Dame  Memory 

Take  in  and  lay  upon  her  shelf 

(The  wit,  as  'twere,  being  bound  in  nae, 
Though  not  for  wind-bibbing,  perdie,) 

Her  faculties  collateral, 

Th'  opinative  in  each  degree 

And  others  intellectual. 

XXXVII 

And  on  likewise  th'  estimative, 

— Wherebj'  prosperity  we  gain, — 
Similative  and  formative. 

By  whose  disorder  folk  remain 

Oft  lunatic,  to  wit,  insane. 
From  month  to  month ;  which  aforesaid 

I  mind  me  often  and  again 
In  Aristotle  to  have  read. 

XXXVIII 

Then  did  the  sensitive  upleap 

And  gave  the  cue  to  fantasy, 
That  roused  the  organs  all  from  sleep. 

But  held  the  sovereign  faculty 

Still  in  suspense  for  lethargy 
And  pressure  of  oblivion, 

Which  had  disjiread  itself  in  me. 
To  show  the  senses'  union. 


104  VILLON'S  POEMS 


XXXIX 


Then,  when  my  senses  in  due  course 
Grew  calm  and  understanding  clear, 

I  thought  to  finish  my  discourse, 
But  found  my  inkpot  frozen  sheer 
And  candle  out,  nor  far  nor  near 

^ire  might  I  find,  so  must  of  need, 
All  muffled  up  for  warmer  cheer, 

Get  me  to  sleep  and  end  my  rede. 


XL 


Done  at  the  season  aforesaid 

Of  the  right  well-renowned  Villon, 
Who  eats  nor  white  nor  oaten  bread. 

Black  as  a  malkin,  shrunk  and  wan. 

Tents  and  pavilions  every  one 
He's  left  to  one  or  t'other  friend; 

All  but  a  little  pewter's  gone, 
That  will,  ere  long,  come  to  an  end. 

Here  Endeth  the  Lesser  Testamej      op 
Master  FRAN901S  Villon 


THE  GREATER  TESTAMENT 


Here  BBcrNNEXH  the  Greater  Testambnt 

OF 

Master  FRAN901S  Villon 


In  the  year  thirty  of  my  age, 

Wherein  I've  drunk  so  deep  of  shame. 
Neither  all  fool  nor  yet  all  sage, 

For  all  my  misery  and  blame — 

Which  latter  all  upon  me  came 
Through  Bishop  Thibault  d'Aussigny: 

(If  bishop  such  an  one  folk  name; 
At  all  events,  he's  none  for  me : 


n 


He's  nor  my  bishop  nor  my  lord ; 

I  hold  of  him  nor  land  nor  fee, 
Owe  him  nor  homage  nor  accord. 

Am  nor  his  churl  nor  beast,  perdie), 

A  summer  long  he  nourished  me 
Upon  cold  water  and  dry  bread; 

God  do  by  him  as  he  by  me. 
Whom  passing  scurvily  he  fed. 

107 


108  VILLON'S  POEMS 


III 


If  any  go  about  to  say 

I  do  miscall  him — I  say  no: 
I  wrong  him  not  in  any  way. 

If  one  aread  me  rightly.     Lo ! 

Here's  all  I  say,  nor  less  nor  mo; 
If  he  had  mercy  on  my  dole, 

May  Christ  in  heaven  like  mercy  show 
Unto  his  body  and  his  soul ! 


IV 


And  if  he  wrought  me  pain  and  ill 

More  than  herein  I  do  relate, 
God  of  His  grace  to  him  fulfil 

Like  measure  and  proportionate! 

But  the  Church  bids  us  not  to  hate. 
But  to  pray  rather  for  our  foes: 

I'll  own  I'm  wrong  and  leave  his  fate 
To  God  that  all  things  can  and  knows. 


And  pray  for  him  I  will,  to  boot, 
By  Master  Cotard's  soul  I  swear! 

But  soft:  'twill  then  be  but  by  rote; 
I'm  ill  at  reading;  such  a  prayer 
I'll  say  for  him  as  Picards'  were. 

(If  what  I  mean  he  do  not  know — 
Ere  'tis  too  late  to  learn  it  there— 

To  Lille  or  Douai  let  him  go.) 


VILLON'S  rOEMS  109 


VI 


Yet,  if  he  needs  must  have't  that  I 
Should,  willy  nilly,  for  him  pray, 

(Though  I  proclaim  it  not  on  high) 
As  I'm  a  chrisom  man,  his  way 
He  e'en  shall  get ;  but,  sooth  to  say, 

When  I  the  Psalter  ope  for  him, 
I  take  the  seventh  verse  alway 

Of  the  psalm  called  "Deus  laudem.'* 


vn 


I  do  implore  God's  blessed  Son, 
To  whom  I  turn  in  every  need. 

So  ha})ly  my  poor  orison 

Find  grace  with  Him — from  whom  indeed 
Body  and  soul  I  hold — who's  freed 

Me  oft  from  blame  and  evil  chance. 
Praised  be  our  Lady  and  her  Seed 

And  Louis  the  good  King  of  France! 

vin 

Whom  God  with  Jacob's  luck  endow. 

And  glory  of  great  Solomon ! 
Of  doughtiness  he  has  enow. 

In  sooth,  and  of  dominion. 

In  all  the  lands  the  sun  shines  on, 
In  this  our  world  of  night  and  day, 

God  grant  his  fame  and  memory  wonne 
As  long  as  lived  Methusaleh! 


110  VILLON'S  POEMS 


IX 


May  twelve  fair  sons  perpetuate 
His  royal  lineage,  one  and  all 

As  valorous  as  Charles  the  Great, 
Conceived  in  matrix  conjugal, 
As  doughty  as  Saint  Martial ! 

The  late  Lord  Dauphin  fare  likewise; 
No  worser  fortune  him  befall 

Than  this  and  after,  Paradise ! 


Feeling  myself  upon  the  wane. 

Even  more  in  goods  than  body  spent. 
Whilst  ray  full  senses  I  retain, 

What  little  God  to  me  hath  sent 

(For  on  no  other  have  I  leant) 
I  have  set  down  of  my  last  will 

This  very  stable  Testament, 
Alone  and  irrevocable. 


XI 


Written  in  the  same  year,  sixty-one, 
Wherein  the  good  king  set  me  free 

From  the  dour  prison  of  Mehun 
And  so  to  life  recovered  me: 
Whence  I  to  him  shall  bounden  be 

As  long  as  life  in  me  fail  not : 
I'm  his  till  death ;  assuredly, 

Good  deeds  should  never  be  forgot. 


VILLOX'S  POEMS  111 

Here  Beginnetii  Villon  to  Enter  upon 

Matter  Full  of  Erudition  and  of 

Fair  Knowledge 


XII 


Now  is  it  true  tliat,  after  years 
Of  anguish  and  of  sorrowing, 

Travail  and  toil  and  groans  and  tears 
And  many  a  weary  wondering. 
Trouble  hath  wrought  in  me  to  bring 

To  point  each  shifting  sentiment, 
Teaching  me  many  another  thing 

Than  Averrhiies  his  Comment. 

XIII 

However,  at  my  trials'  worst, 

When  wandering  in  the  desert  ways, 

God,  who  the  Emmiius  pilgrims  erst 
Did  comfort,  as  the  Gospel  says. 
Showed  me  a  certain  resting-[)lace 

And  gave  me  gift  of  hope  no  less  ; 

Though  vile  the  sinner  be  and  base, 

Nothing  He  hates  save  stubbornness. 


XIV 


Sinned  have  T  oft,  as  well  I  know; 

But  God  my  death  doth  not  require. 
But  that  I  turn  from  sin  and  so 

Live  righteously  and  shun  hellfire. 


112  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Whether  one  by  sincere  desire 
Or  counsel  turn  unto  the  Lord, 

He  sees  and  casting  off  His  ire, 
Grace  to  repentance  doth  accord. 


XV 


And  as  of  its  own  motion  shows, 

Ev'n  in  the  very  first  of  it, 
The  noble  Romaunt  of  the  Rose, 

Youth  to  the  young  one  should  remit, 

So  manhood  do  mature  the  wit. 
And  there,  alack !  the  song  says  sooth : 

They  that  such  snares  for  me  have  knit 
Would  have  me  die  in  time  of  youth. 

XVI 

If  for  my  death  the  common  weal 

Might  anywhere  embettered  be, 
Death  my  own  hand  to  me  should  deal 

As  felon,  so  God  'stablish  me ! 

But  unto  none,  that  I  can  see. 
Hindrance  I  do,  alive  or  dead; 

The  hills,  for  one  poor  wight,  perdie, 
Will  not  be  stirred  out  of  their  stead. 

XVII 

Whilom,  when  Alexander  reigned, 

A  man  that  hight  Diomedes 
Before  the  Emperor  was  arraigned. 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  like  as  one  sees 


VILLON'S  POEMS  113 

A  thief.  A  skimmer  of  the  seas 
Of  those  that  course  it  far  and  nigh 

He  was,  and  so,  as  one  of  these, 
Thej  brought  him  to  be  doomed  to  die. 

xvui 

The  emperor  bespoke  him  thus  : 

*Why  art  thou  a  sea-plunderer?' 
The  other,  no  wise  timorous : 

'Why  dost  thou  call  me  plunderer,  sir? 

Is  it,  perchance,  because  I  ear 
Upon  so  mean  a  bark  the  sea? 

Could  I  but  arm  me  with  thy  gear, 
I  would  be  emperor  like  to  thee. 


XIX 


'What  wouldst  thou  have  ?    From  sorry  Fate, 

That  uses  me  with  such  despite 
As  I  on  no  wise  can  abate. 

Arises  this  my  evil  plight. 

Let  me  find  favour  in  thy  sight 
And  have  in  mind  the  common  sa\r: 

In  penury  is  little  right; 
Necessity  knows  no  man's  law.') 


XX 


Whenas  the  emperor  to  his  suit 

Had  hearkened,  much  he  wondered; 

And  'I  thy  fortune  will  commute 
From  bad  to  good,'  to  him  he  said ; 


114  VILLON'S  POEMS 

And   did.      Thenceforward   Diomed 
Wronged  none,  but  was  a  true  man  aye. 

Thus  have  I  in  Valerius  read, 
Of  Rome  styled  Greatest  in  his  day. 


XXI 


If  God  had  granted  me  to  find 

A  king  of  like  greatheartedness, 
That  had  fair  fate  to  me  assigned, 

Stooped  I  thenceforward  to  excess 

Or  ill,  I  would  myself  confess 
Worthy  to  die  by  fire  at  stake. 

Necessity  makes  folk  transgress 
And  want  drives  wolven  from  the  brake. 

XXII 

My  time  of  youth  I  do  bewail. 

That  more  than  most  lived  merrily, 
Until  old  age  'gan  me  assail, 

For  youth  had  passed  unconsciously. 

It  wended  not  afoot  from  me, 
Nor  yet  on  horseback.     Ah,  how  then.? 

It  fled  away  all  suddenly 
And  never  will  return  again. 

XXIII 

It's  gone,  and  I  am  left  behind, 
Poor  both  in  knowledge  and  in  wit. 

Black  as  a  berry,  drear  and  dwined, 
Coin,  land  and  goods,  gone  every  whit; 


VILLON'S  rOEMS  116 

Wliilst  those  by  kindred  to  me  knit, 
The  due  of  Nature  all  for^jot, 

To  disavow  me  have  seen  fit, 
For  lack  of  pelf  to  pay  the  scot. 

XXIV 

Yet  have  I  not  my  substance  spent 

In  wantoning  or  gluttony 
Nor  thorow  love  incontinent ; 

None  is  there  can  reproach  it  me, 

Except  he  rue  it  bitterly ; 
I  say  it  in  all  soothfastness — 

Nor  can  you  bate  me  of  this  plea — 
Who's  done  no  wrong  should  none  coofess. 

XXV 

True  is  it  I  have  loved  whilcre 

And  willingly  would  love  again : 
But  aching  heart  and  })aunch  that  ne'er 

Doth  half  its  complement  contain, 

The  ways  of  Love  allure  in  vain ; 
'Deed,  none  but  those  may  play  its  game 

Whose  well-lined  belly  wags  amain ; 
For  the  dance  comes  of  the  full  wame. 

XXVI 

If  in  my  time  of  Aouth,  alack! 

I  had  but  studicfl  and  been  sage 
Nor  wandered  from  the  hcfiten  track, 

I  had  slept  warm  in  my  old  age. 


116  VILLON'S  POEMS 

But  what  did  I?     As  bird  from  cage, 
I  fled  the  schools ;  and  now  with  pain, 

In  setting  down  this  on  the  page. 
My  heart  is  like  to  cleave  in  twain. 


xxvn 

I  have  construed  what  Solomon 
Intended,  with  too  much  largesse. 

When  that  he  said,  'Rejoice,  my  son. 
In  thy  fair  youth  and  lustiness :' 
But  elsewhere  speaks  he  otherguess; 

*For  youth  and  adolescence  be' 

(These  are  his  words,  nor  more  nor  less) 

'But  ignorance  and  vanity.' 

XXVIII 

Like  as  the  loose  threads  on  the  loom, 
Whenas  the  weaver  to  them  lays 

The  flaming  tow,  burn  and  consume, 
So  that  from  ragged  ends  (Job  says) 
The  web  is  freed, — even  so  my  days 

Are  gone  a-wand'ring  past  recall. 
No  more  Fate's  buffs  nor  her  affrays 

I  fear,  for  death  assuageth  all. 

XXIX 

Where  are  the  gracious  gallants  now 
That  of  old  time  I  did  frequent, 

So  fair  of  fashion  and  of  show. 
In  song  and  speech  so  excellent? 


VILLON'S  POEMS  117 

Stark  dead  arc  some,  their  lives  aie  spent; 
There  rests  of  them  nor  mark  nor  trace: 

May  they  in  Heaven  have  content ; 
God  keep  the  others  of  His  grace 


,1 


XXX 


Some,  Christ-a-mercy,  are  become 

Masters  and  lords  of  high  degree; 
Some  beg  all  naked  and  no  crumb 

Of  bread  save  in  some  window  see; 

Some,  having  put  on  monkery, 
Carthews,  Celestines  and  what  not, 

Shod,  breeched  like  oysterfishers  be; 
Look  you,  how  divers  is  their  lot! 


XXXI 


God  grant  great  lords  to  do  aright. 

That  live  in  luxury  and  ease! 
We  cannot  aught  to  them  requite, 

So  will  do  well  to  hold  our  peace. 

But  to  the  poor  (like  me),  that  cease 
Never  from  want,  God  patience  give! 

For  that  they  need  it;  and  not  tfe«e, 
That  have  the  wherewithal  to  live, — 


XXXII 


That  drink  of  noble  wines  and  eat 
Fish,  soups  and  sauces  every  day. 

Pasties  and  flawns  and  roasted  meat 
And  eggs  served  up  in  many  a  way. 


118  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Herein  from  masons  differ  they. 
That  with  such  toil  their  bread  do  ea.ru: 

These  need  no  cupbearer,  folk  say, 
For  each  one  pours  out  in  his  turn. 

XXXIII 

To  this  digression  I've  been  led. 

That  serves  in  nothing  my  intent. 
I  am  no  Court,  empanelled 

For  quittance  or  for  punishment: 

I  am  of  all  least  diligent. 
Praised  be  Christ !     May  each  man's  need 

By  me  of  Him  have  full  content! 
That  which  is  writ  is  writ  indeed. 

XXXIV 

So  let  that  kite  hang  on  the  wall 

And  of  more  pleasing  subjects  treat; 

For  this  finds  favour  not  with  all. 
Being  wearisome   and   all   unsweet: 
For  poverty  doth  groan  and  greet, 

Full  of  despite  and  strife  alway ; 
Is  apt  to  say  sharp  things  in  heat 

Or  think  them,  if  it  spare  to  say. 

XXXV 

Poor  was  I  from  my  earliest  youth, 
Born  of  a  poor  and  humble  race: 

My  sire  was  never  rich,  in  sooth, 
Nor  yet  his  grandfather  Erace; 


VILLON'S  POEMS  119 

Want  follows  hard  upon  our  trace 
Nor  on  my  forbears'  tombs,  I  ween, 

(Whose  souls  the  love  of  God  embrace!) 
Are  crowns  or  sceptres  to  be  seen. 

XXXV'I 

When  I  of  poverty  complain, 

Ofttimcs  my  heart  to  mc  hath  said, 

'Man,  wherefore  murmur  thus  in  vain? 
If  thou  hast  no  such  plentihead 
As  had  Jacques   Coeur,  be  comforted: 

Better  to  live  and  rags  to  wear 

Than  to  have  been  a  lord,  and  dead. 

Rot  in  a  splendid  sepulchre.' 

XXXVII 

(Than  to  have  been  a  lord!     I  say. 

Ales,  no  lonfTcr  is  he  one : 
As  the  Psalm  tells  of  it, — to-day 

His  place  of  men  is  all  unknown.) 

As  for  the  rest,  affair  'tis  none 
Of  mine,  that  but  a  sinner  be: 

To  theologians  alone 
The  case  belongs,  and  not  to  me. 

XXXVIII 

For  I  am  not,  as  well  I  know. 

An  angel's  son,  that  crowned  with  li^t 
Among  the  starry  heavens  doth  go : 

My  sire  is  dead — God  have  his  spright ! 


120  VILLON'S  POEMS 

His  body's  buried  out  of  sight. 
I  know  my  mother  too  must  die- 


She  knows  it  too,  poor  soul,  aright — 
And  soon  her  son  by  her  must  lie. 


xxxix 


I  know  full  well  that  rich  and  poor, 
Villein  and  noble,  high  and  low. 

Laymen  and  clerks,  gracious  and  dour. 
Wise  men  and  foolish,  sweet  of  show 
Or  foul  of  favour,  dames  that  go 

Ruffed  and  rebatoed,  great  or  small, 
High-tired  or  hooded.  Death  (I  know) 

Without  exception  seizes  all. 


XL 


Paris  or  Helen  though  one  be, 

Who  dies,  in  pain  and  drearihead, 
For  lack  of  breath  and  blood  dies  he, 

His  gall  upon  his  heart  is  shed; 

Then  doth  he  sweat,  God  knows  how  dread 
A  sweat,  and  none  there  is  to  allay 

His  ills,  child,  kinsman,  in  his  stead, 
None  will  go  bail  for  him  that  day. 


XLI 


Death  makes  him  shiver  and  turn  pale. 
Sharpens  his  nose  and  swells  his  veins, 

Puffs  up  his  throat,  makes  his  flesh  fail, 
His  ioints  and  nerves  greatens  and  strains. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  121 

Fair  women's  bodies,  soft  as  skeins 
Of  silk,  so  tender,  smooth  and  rare. 

Must  you  too  suffer  all  these  pains? 
Ay,  or  alive  to  heaven  fare. 

Ballad  of  Old-Time  Ladies 


Tell  me  where,  in  what  land  of  shade, 
Bides  fair  Flora  of  Rome,  and  where 

Are  Thais  and  Archipiade, 

Cousins-german  of  beaut?/  rare. 
And  Echo,  more  than  mortal  fair. 

That,  when  one  calls  by  river-flow. 
Or  marish,  answers  out  of  the  air? 

But  what  is  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

II 

Where  did  the  learn'd  Heloisa  vade. 

For  whose  sake  Abelard  might  not  spare 
{Such  dole  for  love  on  him  was  laid) 

Manhood  to  lose  and  a  cowl  to  wear? 

And  where  is  tlie  queen  who  willed  whilere 
That  Buridan,  tied  in  a  sack,  shotdd  go 

Floating  down  Seine  from  the  turret-stair? 
But  what  is  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Ill 

Blanche,  too,  the  lily-white  queen,  that  made 
Sweet  music  as  if  she  a  siren  were; 

Broad-foot  Bertha:  and  Joan  the  maid. 
The  good  Lorrainer,  the  English  bare 


122  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Captive  to  Rouen  and  burned  her  there; 
Beatrix,  Eremburge,  Alys, — lo! 

Where  are  they.  Virgin  debonair? 
But  what  is  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Envoi 

Prince,  you  may  question  how  they  fare 
This  week,  or  liefer  this  year,  I  trow: 

Still  shall  the  answer  this  burden  bear. 
But  what  is  become  of  last  year's  snow? 

Ballad  of  Old-Time  Lords 

No.  1 


There  is  Calixtus,  third  of  the  name. 

That  died  vn  the  purple  whiles  ago. 
Four  years  since  he  to  the  tiar  came? 

And  the  King  of  Aragon,  Alfonso? 

The  Duke  of  Bourbon,  sweet  of  show. 
And  the  Duke  Arthur  of  Brittaine? 

And  Charles  the  Seventh,  the  Good?   Heigho! 
But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemaigne? 

n 

Likewise  the  King  of  Scots,  whose  shame 
Was  the  half  of  his  face  (or  folk  say  5o), 

Vermeil  as  amethyst  held  to  the  flame. 
From  chin  to  forehead  all  of  a  glow? 


VILLON'S  POEMS  ViH 

The  King  of  Cyprus,  of  friend  and  foe 
Renowned;  and  the  gen*le   King  of  Spain, 

Whose  name,  God  'ield  me,  I  do  not  know? 
But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemaigne? 

Ill 

Of  many  more  might  I  ask  the  same. 

Who  are  but  dust  that  the  breezes  blow; 
But  I  desist,  for  none  may  claim 

To  stand  against  Death,  that  lays  ail  low. 

Yet  one  more  question  before  I  go: 
Where  is  Lancelot,  King  of  Behaine? 

And  where  are  his  valiant  ancestors,  trow? 
But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemaigne? 

Envoi 

WJiere  is  Du  Guesclin,  the  Breton  prow? 

Where  Auvergn^'s  Dauphin  and  where  again 
The  late  good  duke  of  Alen^on?     Lo! 
But  where  is  the  doughty  Charlemaigne? 

Ballad  of  Old-Time  Loeds 

No.  2 


Where  are  the  holy  apostles  gone. 
Alb-clad  and  amice-tired  and  staled 

With  the  sacred  tippet  and  that  alone, 
Whcrexcith,  n-hcv  he  waxeth  overbold. 


124  VILLON'S  POEMS 

The  foul  fiend's  throttle  they  take  and  hold? 
All  mtist  come  to  the  self -same  hay; 
Sons  and  servants,  their  days  are  told: 
The  wind  carries  their  like  away. 


n 


Where  is  he  now  that  held  the  throne 
Of  Constantine,  with  the  bands  of  gold? 

And  the  King  of  Frajice,  o'er  all  kings  known 
For  grace  and  worship  that  was  extolled, 
WJto  convents  and  churches  manifold 

Built  for  God's  service?     In  their  day 
What  of  the  honour  they  had?    Behold, 

The  wind  carries  their  like  away. 


m 


Where  are  the  champions  every  one. 

The  Dauphins,  the  counsellors  young  and  old? 
The  barons  of  Salins,  Dol,  Dijon, 

Vienne,  Grenoble?     They  all  are  cold. 

Or  take  the  folk  under  their  banners  enrolled. 
Pursuivants,  trumpeters,  heralds,   {hey! 

How    they   fed   of   the  fat   and   the  flagon 
trolled!) 
[The  wind  carries  their  like  away. 

Envoi 

Prmces  to  death  are  all  foretold. 

Even  as  the  humblest  of  their  array: 


VILLON'S  POEMS  125 

Whether  they  sorrow  or  whether  tfiey  scold. 
The  wind  carries  their  like  away. 

XLII 

Since,  then,  popes,  princes  great  and  small, 
That  in  queens'  wombs  conceived  were, 

Are  dead  and  buried,  one  and  all, 

And  other  heads  their  crownals  wear, 
Shall  Death  to  smite  poor  me  forbear? 

Shall  I  not  die?     Ay,  if  God  will. 
So  that  of  life  I  have  my  share, 

An  honest  death  I  take  not  ill. 

XLIII 

This  world  is  not  perpetual, 

Deem  the  rich  robber  what  he  may: 

Under  death's  whittle  are  we  all. 
Old  men  to  heart  this  comfort  lay. 
That  had  repute  in  their  young  day 

Of  being  quick  at  jest  and  flout, — 

Whom  folk,  if.  now  that  they  are  gray, 

They  should  crack  jokes,  as  fools  would  scout. 

XLIV 

Now  haply  must  they  beg  their  bread, 
(For  need  thereto  doth  them  constrain;) 

Each  day  they  wish  that  they  were  dead; 
Sorrow  so  straitens  heart  and  brain 


126  VILLON'S  POEiMS 

That,  did  not  fear  of  God  restrain, 
Some  dreadful  deed  they  might  essay; 

Nay,  whiles  they  take  His  law  in  vain 
Afid  with  themselves  they  make  away. 

XLV 

For  if  in  youth  men  spoke  them  fair, 
Now  do  they  nothing  that  is  right ; 

(Old  apes,  alas!  ne'er  pleasing  were; 
No  trick  of  theirs  but  brings  despite.) 
If  they  are  dumb,  for  fear  of  slight, 

Felk  them  for  worn-out  dotards  hold ; 
Speak  they,  their  silence  folk  invite, 

Saying  they  pay  with  others'  gold. 

XLVI 

So  with  poor  women  that  are  old 
And  have  no  vivers  in  the  chest. 

When  that  young  wenches  they  behold 
Fare  at  their  ease  and  well  addrest. 
They  ask  God  why  before  the  rest 

Themselves  were  born.     They  cry  and  shout: 
God  answers  not;  for  second  best 

He'd  come  off  at  a  scolding-bout. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  127 

The  Complaint  of  the  Faie 
Helm-Maker  Grown  Old 


Methought  I  heard  the  fair  complain 
— The  fair  that  erst  was  helm-maker- 

And  wish  herself  a  girl  again. 
After  this  fashion  did  I  hear: 
'*Alack!  old  age,  felon  and  drear. 

Why  hast  so  early  laid  me  low? 
What  hinders  but  I  slay  me  here 

And  so  at  one  stroke  end  my  woe? 


n 


«( 


Thou  hast  u/ndone  the  mighty  thrall 
In  which  my  beauty  held  for  me 

Clerks,  merchants,  churchmen,  one  and  all: 
For  never  man  my  face  might  see. 
But  would  have  given  his  all  for  fee^ — r 

Without  a  thought  of  his  abuse, — 
So  I  should  yield  him  at  his  gree 

What  churls  for  nothing  now  refuse. 


in 


**/  did  to  many  me  deny 

{Therein  I  showed  but  little  guile) 
For  love  of  one  right  false  and  sly. 

Whom  without  stint  I  loved  erewhile. 


128  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Whomever  else  I  might  bewile, 
I  loved  him  well,  sorry  or  glad: 

But  he  to  me  was  harsh  and  vile 
And  loved  me  but  for  7t>hat  I  had, 

IV 

"/ZZ  as  he  used  me,  and  however 

Unkind,  I  loved  him  none  the  less: 

Even  had  he  made  me  faggots  bear. 
One  kiss  from  him  or  one  caress. 
And  I  forgot  my  every  stress. 

The  rogue!  'twas  ever  thus  the  same 

With  him.     It  brought  me  scant  liessei 

And  what  is  left  me?    Sin  and  shame. 


"Now  is  he  dead  this  thirty  year. 

And  Vm  grown  old  and  worn  and  gray:. 
When  I  recall  the  days  that  were 

And  think  of  what  I  am  to-day 

And  wJien  me  naked  I  survey 
And  see  my  body  shrunk  to  nought^ 

Withered  and  shrivelled, — wellawayl 
For  grief  I  am  well-nigh  distraught. 

VI 

** Where  is  that  clear  and  crystal  brow? 

Those  eyebrows  arched  and  golden  hair? 
And  those  bright  eyes,  where  are  they  now. 

Wherewith  the  wisest  ravished  were? 


VILLON'S  POEMS  129 

The  little* nose  so  straight  and  fair; 
The  tiny  tender  perfect  ear; 

Where  is  tJie  dimpled  chin  and  where 
The  pouting  lips  so  red  and  clear? 


vu 


"The  shoulders  gent  and  strait  and  small; 
Round  arms  and  white  hands  delicate; 
The  little  pointed  breasts  withal; 

The  haunches  plump  and  high  and  straight. 
Right  fit  for  amorous  debate; 
Wide  hips  *  «  * 

***** 
♦  *  *  «  • 


VIII 


"Brows  wrinkled  sore  and  tresses  gray; 

The  brows  all  falVn  and  dim  the  eyne 
That  wont  to  charm  men's  hearts  away; 

The  nose  that  was  so  straight  and  fine. 

Now  bent  and  swerved  from  beauty's  line; 
Chin  peaked,  ears  furred  and  hanging  down; 

Faded  the  face  and  quenched  its  shine 
And  lips  mere  bags  of  loose  skin  grown. 


DC 


*'Such  is  the  end  of  human  grace: 

The  arms  grown  short  and  hands  all  fhrawn; 

The  shoidders  bowed  out  of  their  place; 


130  VILLON'S  POEMS 

The  breasts  all  shrivelled  up  and  gone; 
The  haunches  like  the  paps  withdrawn; 
The  thighs  no  longer  like  to  thighs. 
Withered  and  mottled  all  like  brawn, 

^^  a^  yp^  flp  fl|r 


**And  so  the  litany  goes  round. 
Lamenting  the  good  time  gone  by. 

Among  us  crouched  upon  the  ground. 
Poor  silly  hags,  to-huddled  by 
A  scanty  fire  of  hemps  talks  dry. 

Kindled  in  haste  and  soon  gone  out; 

(  We  that  once  held  our  heads  so  high!) 

So  all  take  turn  and  turn  aboutJ'"' 

The  Doctrine  of  the  Fair  Helm-Maker 
TO  the  Light  o'  Loves 


Now  think  on't,  Nell  the  glover  fair. 
That  wont  my  scholar  once  to  be. 
And  you,  Blanche  Slippermaker  there. 
Your  case  in  mine  Fd  have  you  see: 
Look  all  to  right  and  left  take  ye; 
Forbear  no  man;  for  trulls  that  bin 
Old  have  nor  course  nor  currency. 
No  more  than  money  that's  called  in. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  131 

n 

You,  Sausage-huckstress  debonair. 

That  dance  and  trip  it  brisk  and  free. 

And  Guillemette  Upholstress,  there. 

Look  you  transgress  not  Love\s  decree: 
Soon  must  you  shut  up  shop,  per  die; 

Soon  old  you  II  grow,  faded  and  thin. 
Worth,  like  some  old  priest's  visnomy, 

No  more  than  money  that's  called  in. 

m 

Jenny  the  hatter,  have  a  care 

Lest  some  false  lover  hamper  thee; 
And  Kitty  Spurmaker,  beware; 

Deny  no  man  that  proffers  fee; 

For  girls  that  are  not  bright  o'  blee 
Men's  scorn  and  not  their  service  win: 

Foul  eld  gets  neither  love  nor  gree. 
No  more  than  mone\'  that's  called  in. 

Envoi 

Wenches,  give  ear  and  list  {quo*  she) 
Wherefore  I  weep  and  make  this  din; 

*Tis  that  there  is  no  help  for  me. 

No  more  than  money  that's  called  in. 

XLVII 

This  lesson  unto  them  gives  she, 
The  bellibone  of  days  gone  by. 


132  VILLON'S  POEMS 

III  said  or  well,  worth  what  they  be, 
These  things  unregistered  have  I 
By  my  clerk  Freniin  (giddy  fry!). 

Being  as  composed  as  well  I  may. 
I  curse  him  if  he  make  me  lie: 

Like  clerk,  like  master,  people  say. 

t 

XL  VIII 

Nay,  the  great  danger  well  I  see 

\^Tierein  a  man  in  love  doth  fall  .  .  . 

Suppose  that  some  lay  blame  on  me 
For  this  speech,  saying,  "Listen,  all: 
If  this  do  make  you  love  miscall. 

The  tricks  of  wantons  named  above, 
Your  doubts  are  too  chimerical. 

For  these  are  women  light  o'  love. 

XLIX 

*'For  if  they  love  not  but  for  gain. 

Folk  do  but  love  them  for  a  day; 
In  sooth,  they  roundly  love  all  men. 

And  when  purse  weeps,  then  are  they  gay; 

Not  one  but  questeth  after  prey. 
But  honest  men,  so  God  me  spare, 

With  honest  women  will  alway 
Have  dealing,  and  not  otherwhere." 


I  put  it  that  one  thus  devise: 

He  doth  in  nothing  me  gainsay; 


VILLON'S  POEMS  i:i3 

In  sooth,  I  think  no  otherwise, 

And  well  I  ween  that  one  should  aye 
In  worthy  place  love's  homage  pay. 

But  were  not  these,  of  whom  I  rhyme 
(God  wot)   and  reason  all  the  day. 

Once  honest  women  aforetime? 

LI 

Aye,  they  were  honest,  in  good  sooth. 

Without  reproach  or  any  blame : 
But,  in  her  first  and  ])rime  of  youth. 
Ere  she  had  loren  her  good  name. 
Each  of  these  women  thought  no  shame 
To  take  some  man  for  her  desire, 
Laic  or  clerk,  to  quench  love's  flame. 
That  burns  worse  than  St.  Anthony's  fire. 

LII 

Of  these,  as  Love  ordains,  they  made 

Their  lovers,  as  appearcth  well : 
Each  loved  her  gallant  in  the  shade 

And  none  else  had  with  her  to  mell. 

But  this  first  love's  not  durable; 
For  she,  that  loved  but  one  erewhen, 

Soon  tires  of  him  to  her  that  fell 
And  sets  herself  to  love  all  men. 

■\Aniat  moves  them  thus?     I  do  opine, 
Without  their  honour  gainsaying. 


134  VILLON'S  POEMS 

That  'tis  their  nature  feminine, 

Which  tends  to  cherish  everything: 
No  other  reason  with  the  thing 

Will  rhyme,  but  if  this  saw  it  be, 
That  everywhere  folk  say  and  sing; 

Six  workmen  do  more  work  than  three. 

LIV 

The  shuttlecock  light  lovers  be; 

Their  ladie-loves  the  battledore. 
This  is  love's  way  in  verity: 

Spite  clips  and  kisses,  evermore 

By  constancy  it  sets  small  store. 
For  everyone  this  wise  complains 

Of  dogs  and  horses,  love  and  war: 
Each  pleasure's  bought  with  fifty  pains* 


Double  Ballad  to  the  Like 
Purport 


Serve  love  and  ladies  day  and  nighty 

Frequenting  feasts  and  revelries; 
You'll  get  nor  profit  nor  delight. 

But  only  broken  heads  and  sighs; 

Light  loves  make  asses  of  the  wise,  \ 
As  witness  Solomon,  God  wot; 

And  Samson  thereby  lost  his  eyes. 
Happy  is  he  who  knows  them  not. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  135 


n 


Orpheus,  the  minstrel  fair  and  wight. 

That  fluted  in  such  dulcet  guise. 
Did  hardly  'scape  the  deadly  bite 

Of  Cerberus,  in  love's  emprize; 

Xarcissus  did  so  idolize 
His  omn  fair  favour  that  {poor  sot) 

He  drowned  himself,  as  none  denies, 
Happy  is  he  who  knows  them  not. 


m 


Sard  ana  also,  the  good  knight. 

That  conquered  Crete,  did  disguise 

Him  as  a  wench  and  so  bedight. 

Span  among  maids;  and  on  like  wise 
David  the  king,  for  palliardize. 

The  fear  of  God  awhile  forgot 

At  sight  of  white  well-shapen  thighs. 

Happy  is  he  who  knows  them  not. 


IV 


And  David's  son,  that  Ammon  hight. 

Deflowered  his  sister,  for  with  lies. 
Feigning  desire  for  manchets  white. 

Incest  most  foul  he  did  devise; 

And  Herod  {history  testifies) 
Paid  with  John  Baptist's  head  the  scot 

For  a  girl's  dancing  deviltries. 
Happy  is  he  who  knows  them  not. 


136  VILLON'S  POEMS 


And  even  I,  poor  silly  tenght. 
Was  beaten  as  linen  is  that  lies 

In  washers'  tubs  for  bats  to  smite; 
And  who  gat  me  this  sour  surprise 
But  VauceVs  Kate,  the  cockatrice? 

And  Noel,  too,  his  good  share  got 
Of  cuffs  at  those  festivities. 

Happy  is  he  who  knows  them  not. 


VI 


And  yet  before  a  young  man  might 

Be  brought  to  leave  this  merchandise. 
Well  might  you  burn  him  bolt  upright. 

Witch-like  that  on  a  besom  flies. 

Above  all,  wenches  doth  he  prize: 
But  there's  no  trusting  them  a  jot; 

Blonde  or  brunette,  this  rhyme  applies, 
Happy  is  he  who  knows  them  not. 


LV 


If  she  whom  I  did  serve  of  old 
So  whole  of  heart  and  loyally. 

For  whom  I  wasted  years  and  gold 
And  only  won  much  misery, — 
If  she  at  first  had  told  to  me 

(But  no,  alas!)  her  true  intent, 
I  had  essayed  assuredly 

To  cast  off  my  entanglement. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  137 


LVI 


Whatever  I  to  her  would  say 
She  always  ready  was  to  hear 

Nor  ever  said  me  ay  or  nay ; 

Nay  more,  she  suffered  me  draw  near, 
Sit  close  and  whisper  in  her  ear, 

And  so  with  me  played  fast  and  loose 
And  let  me  tell  my  all  to  her, 

Intending  only   my   abuse. 

LVII 

She  fooled  me,  being  in  her  power ; 

For  she  did  make  me  think,  alas ! 
That  one  was  other,  ashes  flour, 

That  a  felt  hat  a  mortar  was ; 

Of  rusty  iron,  that  'twas  brass ; 
Of  double  ace,  that  it  was  trey. 

So  would  she  make  a  man  an  ass 
And  lead  him  by  the  nose  alway. 

LVIII 

On  this  wise  did  she  me  persuade, 
Till  heaven  a  brazen  canopy. 

The  clouds  of  calfskin  to  be  made 
And  morning  evening  seemed  to  be: 
111  beer  new  wine,  a  hank  of  three 

A  halter,  navews  cabbage-plant, 
A  sow  a  windmill  was  for  nic 

And  a  fat  priest  a  pursuivant. 


138  VILLON'S  POEMS 


lilX 


Thus  Love  hath  wrought  me  to  deceive 
And  bandied  me  from  cold  to  hot: 

There  is  no  man,  I  do  believe, 
Were  he  as  cunning  as  I'm  not. 
But  he  would  leave  with  Love  for  scot 

Pourpoint  and  hose,  and  fare  as  I, 

That  everywhere  am  called,  God  wot. 

The  lover  flouted  and  laid  by. 


I.X 


Love  now  and  wenches  I  forswear ; 

War  to  the  knife  to  them  I  mete ; 
For  death  (and  not  a  rap  they  care) 

Through  them  treads  hard  upon  my  feet. 

I've  put  my  lute  beneath  the  seat ; 
Lovers  no  longer  I'll  ensue; 

If  ever  I  with  them  did  treat, 
I'm  none  henceforward  of  their  crew. 


LXI 


'Gainst  Love  my  standard  I've  unfurled; 

Let  those  that  love  him  follow  still; 
I'm  his  no  longer  in  this  world; 

For  I  intend  to  do  my  will. 

Wherefore  if  any  take  it  ill 
That  I  Love  venture  to  impeach, 

Let  this  content  him,  will  or  nill, 
"A  dying  man  is  free  of  speech." 


VIT>LOX'S  POEMS  139 


l.Xll 


I  feel  the  droughts  of  dcatli  draw  nigh: 
Gobbets  of  ])lilegni,  as  white  as  snow 

And  big  as  tennis-balls,  spit  I; 
By  token  Jehanneton  no  mo' 
Doth  me  for  squire  and  servant  owe, 

But  for  a  worn-out  rook.     Ah,  well ! 
I  have  the  voice  and  air,  I  know ; 

Yet  arn  I  but  a  cockerel. 

T.XIII 

Thanks  be  to  God  and  Jacques  Thibault, 

Who  made  me  drink  of  water  cold 
So  much  within  a  dungeon  low 

And  also  chew  gags  manifold. 

When  on  these  things  I  think  of  old, 
I  pray  for  him,  .  .  .  et  reliqua ; 

God  give  him  .  .  .  what  at  heart  I  hold 
To  be  his  due  .   .  .  ct  cajtera. 

LXIV 

Yet  do  I  mean  no  ill  to  him 

Or  his  lieutenant ;  nought  but  well 
Of  his  official  eke  I  deem, 

^^^lo's  merry  and  conformable. 

Nor  with  the  rest  have  I  to  mell, 
Save  Master  Robert  .   .   .  Great  and  small, 

As  God  loves  Lombards,  sooth  to  tell, 
I  love  the  whole  lot,  one  and  all. 


140  VILLON'S  POEMS 


LXV 


I  do  remember  (so  God  please) 

In  the  year  '56  I  made, 
Departing,  sundry  legacies. 

That  some  without  my  leave  or  aid 

To  call  my  Testament  essayed. 
(Their  pleasure  'twas,  and  theirs  alone. 

But  what?     Is't  not  in  common  said 
That  none  is  master  of  his  own?) 


I.XVI 


And  should  it  happen  that  of  these 

Some  peradventure  be  unpaid, 
I  order,  after  my  decease, 

That  of  my  heirs  demand  be  made. 

Who  are  they?     If  it  should  be  said; 
To  Moreau,  Provins  and  Turgis 

By  letters  sealed  I  have  conveyed 
Even  to  the  mattress  under  me. 

LXVII 

Towards  the  Bastard  de  la  Barre 
Compassion  still  at  heart  I  bear. 

Beside  his  straw,  (and  these  words  are 
His  old  bequest,  though  more  it  were, 
Not  to  revoke)  I  do  declare 

I  give  him  my  old  mats  for  seat: 

Well  will  they  serve  him  to  sit  square 

And  keep  him  steady  on  his  feet. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  141 

LXVIll 

In  fine,  but  one  more  word  I'll  say 

Or  ever  I  begin  to  test : 
Before  my  clerk,  who  hears  alway 

(If  he's  awake),  I  do  })rotest 

That  knowingly  I  have  opprest 
No  man  in  this  my  ordinance: 

Nor  will  I  make  it  manifest 
Except  unto  the  realm  of  France. 

LXIX 

I  feel  my  heart  that's  growing  dead 

Nor  breath  for  further  prate  have  I. 
Fremin,  sit  down  close  to  my  bed, 

And  look  that  no  one  us  espy. 

Take  pen,  ink,  paper,  by  and  by 
And  what  I  say  write  thou  therein ; 

Then  have  it  copied  far  and  nigh : 
And  this  is  how  I  do  begin. 

Here  Beginneth  Villon  to  Test 

LXX 

In  the  eternal  Father's  name 

And  His  that's  present  in  the  Host, 

One  Mith  the  Father  and  the  same, 
Together  with  the  Holy  Ghost, — 
[By  whom  was  saved  what  Adam  lost. 

And  in  the  light  of  heaven  arrayed, 
(Wlio  best  believes  this  merits  most,) 

Dead  sinners  little  gods  were  made : 


142  VILLON'S  POEMS 


LXXI 


Dead  were  they,  body  and  soul  as  well, 

Doomed  to  eternal  punishment: 
Flesh  rotted,  soul  in  flames  of  hell, 

What  way  soe'er  their  lives  were  spent. 

But  I  except,  in  my  intent, 
Prophets  and  Patriarchs  all  and  sheer: 

Meseems  they  never  could  have  brent 
With  over-muckle  heat  arear. 


LXXII 


If  any  ask,  "What  maketh  thee 

With  questions  such  as  this  to  mell, 

That  art  not  of  theology 

Doctor,  or  therein  capable?" 
'Tis  Jesus  His  own  parable, 

Touching  the  rich  man  that  did  lie. 
Buried  in  burning  flames  of  hell, 

And  saw  the  leper  in  the  sky. 

Lxxin 

If  he  had  seen  the  lazar  burn. 

He  had  not  asked  him,  well  I  wot. 
To  give  him  water  or  in  turn 

To  cool  his  dry  and  parched  throat. 

There  folk  will  have  a  scurvy  lot 
That  to  buy  drink  their  hosen  sell; 

Since  drink  is  there  so  hardly  got, 
God  save  us  all  from  thirst  in  hell!] 


VILLON'S  POEMS  143 


LXXIV 


Now,  in  God's  name  and  with  His  aid 

And  in  our  Lady's  name  no  less, 
Let  without  sin  this  say  be  said 

By  me  grown  haggard  for  duresse. 

If  I  nor  light  nor  fire  possess, 
God  hath  ordained  it  for  my  sin ; 

But  as  to  this  and  other  stress 
I  will  leave  talking  and  begin. 


LXXV 


First,  my  poor  soul  (which  God  befriend) 

Unto  the  blessed  Trinity 
And  to  our  Lady  I  commend, 

The  fountain  of  Divinity, 

Beseeching  all  the  charity 
Of  the  nine  orders  of  the  sky. 

That  it  of  them  transported  be 
Unto  the  throne)  of  God  most  high. 


LXXVI 


Item,  my  body  I  ordain 

Unto  the  earth,  our  grandmother: 
Thereof  the  worms  will  have  small  gain; 

Hunger  hath  worn  it  many  a  year. 

Let  it  be  given  straight  to  her; 
From  earth  it  came,  to  earth  apace 

Returns ;  all  things,  except  I  err. 
Do  gladly  turn  to  their  own  place. 


144  VILLON'S  POEMS 


LXXVII 


Item,  to  Guillaume  de  Villon, — 

(Mv  more  than  father,  who  indeed 

To  me  more  tenderness  hath  shown 
Than  mothers  to  the  babes  they  feed, 
Who  me  from  many  a  scrape  hath  freed 

And  now  of  me  hath  scant  liesse, — 
I  do  entreat  him,  bended-kneed. 

He  leave  me  to  my  present  stress, — ) 


LXXVIII 


I  do  bequeath  my  library, — 

The  "Devil's  Crake"  Romaunt,  whilere 
By  INIessire  Guy  de  Tabarie, — 

A  right  trustworthy  man, — writ  fair. 

Beneath  a  bench  it  lies  somewhere, 
In  quires.     Though  crudely  it  be  writ, 

The  matter's  so  beyond  compare 
That  it  redeems  the  style  of  it. 


LXXIX 


I  give  the  ballad  following 

To  my  good  mother, — who  of  me 
(God  knows  !)  hath  had  much  sorrowing, 

That  she  may  worship  our  Ladie: 

I  have  none  other  sanctuary 
Whereto,  when  overcome  with  dole, 

I  may  for  help  and  comfort  flee ; 
Nor  hath  my  mother,  poor  good  soul! 


VILLON'S  POEA'S  145 

Ballad  That  Villon  Madl  at  the 

Request  of  his  Mother, 

Wherewithal  to  do  her 

Homage  to  Our  Lady 


Lady  of  Heaven,  Regent  of  the  earth. 
Empress  of  all  the  infernal  marshes  fell, 

Receive    me.    Thy    poor    Christian,    'spite    my 
dearth. 
In  the  fair  midst  of  Thine  elect  to  dwell: 
Albeit  my  lack  of  grace  I  know  full  well; 

For  that  Thy  grace,  my  Lady  and  my  Queen, 

Aboundeth  more  than  all  my  misdemean, 
Withouten  which  no  soul  of  all  that  sigh 

May  merit  Heaven.    'Tis  sooth  J  say,  for  e'en 
In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 


II 


Say  to  Thy  Son  I  am  His, — that  by  His  birth 
And  death  my  sins  be  all  redeemable, — 

As  Mary  of.  Egypt's  dole  He  changed  to  mirth 
And  eke  Theophilus',  to  whom  befell 
Quittance  of  Thee,  albeit  {So  men  tell) 

To  the  foul  fiend  he  had  contracted  been. 

Assoilzie  me,  that  I  may  have  no  teen. 
Maid,  that  withoiit  breach  of  virginity 

Didst  bear  our  Lord  that  in  the  Host  is  seen. 
In  this  belief  I  Avill  to  live  and  die. 


146  VILLON'S  POEMS 


m 


A  poor  old  wife  I  am,  and  little  worth: 

Nothing  I  know,  nor  letter  aye  could  spell: 
Where  is  the  church  to  worship  I  fare  forth, 
I  see  Heaven  limned,  with  harps  and  lutes, 

and  Hell, 
Where  damned  folk  seethe  in  fire  unquench- 
able. 
One  doth  me  fear,  the  other  joy  serene: 
Grant  I  may  have  tlie  joy,  O  Virgin  clean. 

To  whom  all  sinners  lift  their  hands  on  high. 
Made  whole  in  faith   through   Thee  their  go-* 
between. 
In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 

^  Envoi 

Thou  didst  conceive.  Princess  most  bright  of 

sheen, 
Jesus  the  Lord,  that  hath  nor  end  nor  mean. 
Almighty,  that,  departing  Heaven's  demesne 

To  succour  us,  put  on  our  frailty. 
Offering  to  death  His  sweet  of  youth  and  green: 
Such  as  He  is,  our  Lord  He  is,  I  ween! 

In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die. 

LXXX 

Item,  upon  my  dearest  Rose 

Nor  heart  nor  liver  I  bestow: 
Thereat  shq  would  turn  up  her  nose, 

Albeit  she  hath  coin  eno', — 


VILLON'S  POEMS  147 

A  fjrcat  silk  purse,  as  well  I  know. 
Stuffed  full  of  crowns,  both,  new  and  old. 

May  he  be  hanged,  or  high  or  low. 
That  leaves  her  silver  aught  or  gold! 

LXXXI 

For  she  Avithout  me  has  enow: 

To  me  it  matters  not  a  jot: 
My  salad  days  are  past,  I  trow ; 

No  more  desire  in  me  is  hot : 

All  that  I  leave  unto  Michot, 
That  was  surnamed  the  good  gallant — 

Or  rather  to  his  heirs ;  God  wot 
At  St.  Satur  his  tomb's  extant. 

LXXXII 

This  notwithstanding,  to  acquit 

Me  toward  Love  rather  than  her, 
(For  never  had  I  any  whit 

Of  hope  from  her:  I  canno!  hear, 

Nor  do  I  care,  if  a  deaf  ear 
To  all  she  turns  as  well  as  me ; 

But  by  Saint  Maudlin  I  aver. 
Therein  but  laughing-stujf  I  see.) 

LXXXIII 

This  ballad  shall  she  have  of  me. 
That  all  with  rliymes  in  R  doth  end : 

Who  shall  be  bearer?     Let  me  see: 
Fernet  the  Bastard  I  will  send, 


148  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Provided,  if,  as  he  doth  wend, 
He  come  across  my  pugnosed  frow, 

This  question  he  to  her  commend; 
"Foul  Wanton,  wherefrom  comest  thou?" 

Ballad  of  Villon  to  his  Mistress 


False  beauty,  that  hath  cost  me  many  n  sigh; 

Fair-seeming  sweetness  in  effect  how  sour; 
Love-liking,  harder  far  tharti  steel,  that  I 

May  sister  r.ame  of  my  defeasance  dour; 

Traitorous  charms,  that  did  my  heart  devour; 
Pride,  that  puts  folk  to  death  with  secret  scorn; 
Pitiless  eyes,  will  rigour  ne^er  allow  her. 
Ere  worse  betide,  to  succour  one  forlorn? 


n 


Well  were  it  for  me  elsewhere  to  apply 

For  succour:  well  I  know  that  in  her  bower 
The  load  of  love  I  never  shall  lay  by; 
Sure  'twere  no  shame  to  fly  from  such  a  stoure. 
Haro!  I  cry — both  great  and  small  implore. 
But  what  avails  me?    I  shall  die  outworn. 
Without  blow  struck,  excepting  pity  bow  her. 
Ere  worse  betide,  to  succour  one  forlorn. 


Ill 


A  time  will  come  to  wither  and  make  dry. 

Yellow    and    pale,    thy    beauty's    full-blown 
flower : 


VILLON'S  POEMS  149 

Then  should  I  laugh,  if  yet  mij  heart  were  high. 
But  no,  alas!   I  then  shall  have  no  power 
To  laugh,  being  old  in  that  disastrous  hour. 

Wherefore  drink  deep,  before  the  river^s  frorne; 
Neither  refuse,  whilst  grace  is  still  thy  dower. 

Ere  worse  betide,  to  succour  one  forlorn. 

Envoi 

Great  God  of  Love,  all  lovers'  governour, 
III  falleth  thy  disfavour  to  be  borne: 

True  hearts  are  bound,  by  Christ  our  Saviour, 
Ere  worse  betide,  to  succour  one  forlorn. 

LXXXIV 

Item,  to  Master  Ythier, 

To  whom  I  left  my  sword  of  yore, 
I  give  (to  set  to  song)  this  lay, 

Containing  verses  half  a  score; 

Being  a  Dc  profundis  for 
His  love  of  once  upon  a  day : 

Her  name  I  must  not  tell  you,  or 
He'd  hate  me  like  the  deuce  alway. 

Lay  or  Rather  Roundel 

Death,  of  thy  rigour  I  complain. 

That  hast  my  lady  torn  from  me 

And  will  not  yet  contented  be. 

Save  from  me  too  all  strength  be  ta*en. 

For  languishment  of  heart  and  brain. 

What  harm  did  she  in  life  to  thee. 

Death? 


151  VILLON'S  POEMS 

One  heart  xve  had  betwixt  us  twain; 
Which  bevtig  dead,  I  too  must  dree 
Death,  or,  like  carven  saints  we  see 

In  choir,  sans  life  to  live  be  fain. 

Death! 

LXXXV 

Item,  a  new  bequest  I  will 

To  make  to  Master  Jehan  Cornu; 
Who  in  my  need  hath  helped  me  still 

And  done  me  favours,  not  a  few ; 

Wherefore  the  garden  him  unto 
I  give  that  Peter  Bobignon 

Leased  me,  so  but  he  hang  anew 
The  door  and  fix  the  gable  on. 

LXXXVI 

I  there  did  lose,  for  lack  of  door, 
A  hone  and  handle  of  a  hoe : 

Thenceforward,  falcons  half  a  score 
Had  not  there  caught  a  lark,  I  trow. 
The  hostel's  safe,  but  keep  it  so. 

I  put  a  hook  there  in  sign-stead : 

God  grant  the  robber  nought  but  woe, 

A  bloody  night  and  earthen  bed ! 

I.XXXVII 

Item,  considering  that  the  wife 
Of  Master  Peter  St.  Amant 

(Yet  if  therein  be  blame  or  strife, 
God  grant  her  grace  and  bcnison) 


VILLON'S  POEMS  151 

Me  as  a  beggar  looks  u{)on. 
For  the  White  Horse  that  will  not  stir, 

A  Mare,  and  for  the  Mule,  anon, 
A  Brick-red  Ass  I  give  to  her. 

LXXXVIII 

Item,  I  give  unto  Denis 

(Elect  of  Paris)  Hesselin, 
Of  wine  of  Aulnis,  from  Turgis 

Taken  at  my  peril,  casks  fourteen. 

If  he  to  drink  too  much  begin. 
That  so  his  wit  and  sense  decline. 

Let  them  put  water  therewithin: 
Many  a  good  house  is  lost  by  wine. 

LXXXIX 

Item,  upon  my  advocate, 

Whose  name  is  Guillaumc  Charriau, — 
Though  he's  a  chapman  by  estate. 

My  sword,  (without  the  scabbard,  though,) 

And  a  gold  royal  I  bestow. 
In  sous,  to  swell  his  purse's  space, 

liCvied  on  those  that  come  and  go 
Within  the  Temple  cloister-place. 


xc 


Item,  my  proctor  Fournier 

Shall  handfuls  four — for  all  his  pam 
And  travail  for  me  night  and  day, — 

Have  from  my  purse ;  for  suits  amain 


152  VILLON'S  POEMS 

He  hath  ywrought  to  gar  me  gain, — 
Just  ones,  by  Jesus  be  it  said! 

Even  as  the  judgment  did  ordain: 
The  best  of  rights  has  need  of  aid. 


xci 


Item,  to  Jamy  Raguyer 

The  ]\Iuckle  Mug  in  Greve  give  I, 
Provided  ahvays  that  he  pay 

Four  placks  for  livery  of  it ;  ay. 

Even  though  what  covers  calf  and  thigh 
To  make  the  money  up  sell  he 

And  fare  each  morn  bare-legged  thereby 
Unto  the  Fir-cone  Hostelry. 

XCII 

Item,  for  Mairebeuf  (I  vow) 

And  Nicholas  de  Louviers, 
I  give  them  neither  ox  nor  cow, 

For  drovers  neither  herds  are  they, 

But  folk  that  ride  a-hawking  may, 
(Think  not  I'm  making  mock  of  you) 

Partridge  and  plover  night  and  day 
To  fake  from  Mother  Maschicoue„ 

XCIII 

Item,  if  Turgis  come  to  me, 

I'll  pay  him  fairly  for  his  wine: 

But  soft ;  if  where  I  lodge  find  he, 
He'll  have  more  wit  than  any  nine. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  153 

I  leave  to  him  that  vote  of  mine, 
As  citizens  of  Paris  sec : 

If  sometimes  I  speak  Poitevine, 
Two  Poitou  ladies  taught  it  me. 

xciv 

Damsels  they  were,  both  fair  and  free, 

Abiding  at  St.  Generou, 
Hard  by  St.  Julian  of  Brittany 

Or  in  the  Marches  of  Poitou. 

Natheless,  I  tell  you  not  for  true 
Where  all  their  days  and  nights  they  dwell ; 

I  am  not  fool  enough,  look  you, 
My  loves  to  all  the  world  to  tell. 

xcv 

Item,  Jehan  Raguyer  I  give 

(That's  Sergeant, — of  the  Twelve,  indeed) 
Each  day,  so  long  as  he  shall  live, 

A  ramakin,  that  he  may  feed 

Thereon  and  stay  his  stomach's  need; 
(From  Bailly's  table  be  it  brought). 

Let  him  not  ask  for  wine  or  mead. 
But  at  the  fountain  quench  his  drought. 

xcvi 

Item,  I  give  the  Prince  of  Fools 
A  master-fool,  Michault  du  Four, 

The  j oiliest  jester  in  the  Schools, 

That  sings  so  well  ''Ma  douce  amour." 


154  VILLON'S  POEMS 

With  that  of  him  I'll  speak  no  more. 
Brief,  if  he's  but  in  vein  some  jot, 

He's  a  right  royal  fool,  be  sure, 
And  still  is  witty,  where  he's  not. 

XCVII 

Item,  I  give  unto  a  pair 

Of  sergeants  here  whose  names  I've  set — 
For  that  they're  honest  folk  and  fair — 

Denis  Richer  and  Jehan  Vallette, 

A  tippet  each  or  bandelet, 
To  hang  their  hats  of  felt  unto ; 

I  mean  foo^-sergeants,  for  as  yet 
Nought  with  the  horse  have  I  to  do. 

XCVIII 

Item,  to  Pernet  I  remit 

For  that  he  is  a  cogging  jack, 

(The  Bastard  of  La  Barre,  to  wit,) 
Three  loaded  dice  or  else  a  pack 
Of  cheating  cards,  marked  on  the  back. 

To  arms,  in  lieu  of  bend.     But  what? 
If  he  be  heard  to  f yst  or  crack, 

The  quartan  ague  catch  the  sot! 

xcix 

Item,  I  order  that  Chollet 

No  longer  hoop  or  saw  or  plane 

Or  head  up  barrels  all  the  day. 

Let  him  his  tools  change  for  a  cane 


VILLON'S  POEMS  155 

(Or  Lyons  sword),  so  he  retain 
The  cooper's  mall ;  for,  sooth  to  tell, 

Though  noise  and  strife  to  hate  he  feiga, 
At  heart  he  loves  them  but  too  well. 


Item,  I  give  to  Jehan  le  Loup — 

For  that  he's  lean  and  lank  and  spent, 
(Though  good-cheap  man  and  comrade  true) 

And  Chollet  too,  is  slow  of  scent, 

A  setter,  young,  but  excellent, 
(No  chick  he'll  miss  afield,  I  trow) 

And  a  long  cloak,  'gainst  'spial  meant 
To  cover  them  from  top  to  toe. 


CI 


Item,  to  Duboys,  goldworker. 

An  hundred  cloves,  both  head  and  tail, 

Of  Saracenic  zinziber ; 

Not  cases  therewithal  to  nail. 
«  *  *  »  * 

***** 

***** 

*  «  *  *  • 


en 


To  Captain  Riou,  as  a  treat 

For  him  and  for  his  archers,  too, 

I  give  six  wolvis-heads  (a  meat 

No  swineherds'  fare  that  is,  look  you) 


156  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Coursed  with  great  dogs  and  set  to  stew 
In  tavern  wine.     In  sooth,  to  feed 

Upon  these  dainties  rare  and  new, 
One  might  do  many  an  ill  deed. 

cm 

'Tis  meat  a  trifle  heavier 

Than  either  feathers,  cork  or  down: 
For  folk  afield  'tis  famous  fare, 

In  camp  or  leaguer  of  a  town. 

But  (failing  dogs  to  hunting  boun) 
An'  if  the  beasts  in  trap  be  ta'en. 

The  skins,  to  fur  his  winter  gown, 
As  a  right  tanner,  I  ordain. 

CIV 

Item,  to  Robinet  Troussecaille 

(Who's  thriven  rarely  in  his  trade; 

He  scorns  to  go  afoot  like  quail, 

But  sits  a  fat  roan  stoutly  made)  , 

My  platter,  that  he  is  afraid  ' 

To  borrow,  I  on  him  bestow ; 
So  will  he  now  be  all  arrayed : 

He  needed  nothing  else,  I  know. 


cv 


To  Perrot  Girard  I  will  well 

(That's  barber  sworn  at  Bourg  la  Reine) 
Two  basins  and  a  fish-kettle. 

Since  he's  so  eager  after  gain. 


VILLON'S  POExMS  157 

Six  years  ago,  the  man  was  fain 
For  seven  whole  days  (God  have  his  soul!) 

Me  with  fat  porkers  to  sustain ; 
Witness  the  Abbess  of  Shaven-poll. 


cvi 


Item,  unto  the  Begging  Freres, 
The  Devotees  and  the  Beguines, 

At  Paris,  Orleans  and  elsewhere, 
Both  Turpelins  and  Turpelines, — 
Of  stout  meat  soups  with  flawns  beseen 

I  make  oblation. 

«  » 

m  *  •  *  * 

•  »  •  ♦  ♦ 

cvii 

Nay,  'tis  not  I  that  give  them  this ; 

But  from  their  loins  all  children  spring 
Through  God  that  guerdons  them  ywis 

For  their  much  swink  and  travailing. 

Each  one  of  them  must  live,  poor  thing,— r 
E'en  monks  of  Paris,  if  they  go 

Our  cummers  still  a-pleasuring, 
God  wot,  they  love  their  husbands  so. 

CVIII 

Whatever  Master  Jehan  Poullieu 

Missaid  of  them,  et  reliqua. 
Constrained  in  public  place  thereto, 

His  words  perforce  he  did  unsay: 


158  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Meung  of  their  fashion  in  his  day, 
Made  mock,  and  Matheolus  too : 

But  honour  unto  that  alway 
Which  God's  Church  honoureth  is  due. 

cix 

So  I  submit  me,  for  my  part, 
In  all  that  I  can  do  or  say. 

To  honour  them  with  all  my  heart 
And  yield  them  service,  as  I  may. 
Fools  only  will  of  them  missay: 

For  or  in  pulpit  or  elsewhere 
None  needeth  to  be  told  if  they 

Are  wont  their  enemies  to  spare. 


ex 


Item,  I  give  to  Brother  Baude, 

In  the  Mount  Carmel  Convent  who 
Good  cheer  doth  make  and  his  abode, 

A  morion  and  gisarms  two, 

Lest  anything  Decosta  do 
To  steal  from  him  his  wench  away. 

He's  old ;  unless  he  quit  the  stew, 
There'll  be  the  deuce  and  all  to  pay. 

CXI 

Item,  for  that  the  Chancellor 

Hath  chewed  fly-droppings  off  and  on 

Full  many  a  time,  his  seal  yet  more 
(I  give  and  grant)  be  spat  upon  ; 


VILLON'S  POEMS  15» 

And  let  him  sprain  his  thumb  anon, 
(Him  of  the  diocese,  I  mean,) 

To  put  my  wishes  all  in  one: 
God  keep  the  others  all  from  teen. 

cxn 

I  give  my  Lords  the  Auditors 

Wainscot  to  make  their  chamber  fair; 
And  each  whose  buttocks  in  the  wars 

Have  been,  a  hollow-bottomed  chair, 

Provided  that  they  do  not  spare 
Macee  of  Orleans,  who,  God  wot. 

Had  my  virginity  whilere, 
For  she's  a  thoroughly  bad  lot. 

cxm 

To  Master  Francis  (if  he  live), 

Promoter  de  la  Vacquerie, 
A  Scotchman's  collaret  I  give, 

Of  hemp  without  embroidery ; 

For,  when  he  put  on  chivalry, 
God  and  St.  George  he  did  blaspheme 

And  ne'er  hears  speak  of  them  but  he 
Doth  with  mad  laughter  shout  and  scream* 

CXIV 

I  give  Jehan  Laurens,  whose  poor  eyes 
Are  still  so  red  and  weak,  (I  ween, 

The  fault  o't  with  his  parents  lies. 

Who  drank  withouten  stint  or  mean), 


160  VILLON'S  POEMS 

My  hose-linings,  to  wipe  them  clean 
O'  mornings,  lest  they  waxen  blear; 

Had  he  of  Bourges  archbishop  been, 
He  had  had  sendal ;  but  that's  dear. 

cxv 

;  Item,  to  Master  Jehan  Cotard, 

My  Church-court  proctor,  since  some  groat 
Or  two  for  fees  yet  owing  are, 

(That  had  till  now  escaped  my  thought) 

When  action  'gainst  me  Denise  brought, 
Saying  I  had  miscalled  her, — 

I  have  this  Orison  ywrought 
So  God  to  heaven  his  soul  prefer. 

Ballad  and  Orison 


Noah,  that  first  the  vine  planted; 

Lot,  too,  that  in  the  grot  drank  high, 

*  *  *  *  ♦ 

*  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  * 

Architriclinus,  learn' d  in  the  howl, — 

I  pray  you  all  three  to  set  in  the  shy 
Good  Master  Cotard,  honest  soul. 


II 


He  was  of  your  lineage  born  and  bred; 
He  drank  of  the  best  and  dearest;  ay. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  161 

Though  Jie'd  never  a  stiver  to  utand  him  in 
stead. 
The  best  of  all  topers  he  was:  for  ich//. 
Never  good  liquor  found  him  shy. 

None  could  the  pot  from  his  grasp  cajole. 
Fair  Lords,  do  not  suffer  in  hell  to  sigh 

Good  Master  Cotard,  honest  soul. 


m 


Pve  seen  him  oft,  when  he  went  to  bed. 

Totter  for  tipple  as  like  to  die; 

And  once  he  gat  him  a  bump  on  the  head 

^Gainst  a  butcher's  stall,  as  he  staggered  by. 

Brief,  one  might  question  far  and  nigh 
For  a  better  fellow  the  cup  to  trowl. 

Let  him  in,  if  you  hear  him  the  wicket  fry: 
Good  Master  Cotard,  honest  soul. 

Envoi 

He  scarce  coidd  spit,  he  was  always  so  dry. 
And  ever  ''''My  throat's  like  a  red-hot  coal!" 

Parched  up  with  thirst,  he  was  wont  to  cry; 
Good  Master  Cotard,  honest  soul. 

cxvi 

Item,  henceforth  youn<^  Merle  shall  still 

Manage  my  change  (for  evermo' 
God  wot,  it  is  against  my  will 

With  change  I  intermeddle)  so 


162  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Full  change  he  give  to  high  and  low, 
Three  crowns  six  half-crowns,  and  two  small 

Angels  one  great  one ;  for,  you  know, 
A  lover  should  be  liberal. 

CXVII 

Item,  I've  seen  with  my  own  eyes 

That  m}'  poor  orphans,  all  the  three, 
Are  grown  in  age,  and  wit  likewise. 

No  sheepsheads  are  they,  I  can  see; 

From  here  to  Salins  none  there  be 
That  better  bear  them  at  the  schools : 

Now  by  the  Confraternity, 
Lads  of  this  fashion  are  no  fools. 

CXVIII 

I  will  that  they  to  college  go ; 

Whither?     To  Master  Pierre  Richer. 
Donatus  is  too  hard,  I  trow: 

Thereat  I  will  not  have  them  stay. 

I'd  rather  they  should  learn  to  say 
An  Ave  Mary  and  there  stand, 

Without  more  letters ;  for  alway 
Scholars  have  not  the  upper  hand. 

cxix 

Let  them  learn  this  and  there  leave  off; 

I  do  forbid  them  to  proceed: 
Meseems  it  is  too  hard  and  tough 

For  boys  to  understand  the  Creed. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  163 

I  halve  my  long  gray  tabard  wede 
And  will  one  half  thereof  to  sell 

And  buy  them  pancakes :  for  indeed 
Children  did  ever  love  cates  well. 

cxx 

I  will  that  they  well  grounded  be 

In  manners,  thougli  it  cost  them  dear: 

Close  hoods  shall  they  wear,  all  the  three, 
And  go  with  thumbs  in  girdle-gear, 
Humble  to  all  that  come  them  near. 

Saying,  '*Eh,  what?  .  .  .  Don't  mention  it!" 
So  folks  shall  say,  when  they  appear, 
These  lads  are  gently  bred,"  to  wit. 


ii 


CXXI 

Item,  unto  my  clerklings  lean, — 

To  whom  my  titles  and  degree 
(Seeing  them  fair  and  well  beseen 

And  straight  as  reeds)  I  gave  in  fee, 

And  also,  without  price  and  free, 
I  did  my  rent  and  charge  assign, 

To  levy  on  the  pillory, 
As  safe  and  sure  as  if  'twere  mine: 

CXXII 

(Though  they  be  young  and  of  good  cheer, 
In  that  they  nothing  me  displease : 

Come  twenty,  thirty,  forty  year, 
They  will  be  other,  so  God  please. 


164  VILLON'S  POEMS 

111  doth  he  that  nialtreateth  these, 
Since  fair  they  are  and  in  their  prime: 

Fools  only  will  them  beat  and  pheeze; 
For  younglings  grow  to  men  in  time,) — 

CXXIII 

The  purses  of  the  Clerks  Eighteen 

They'll  have,  although  my  back  I  break: 

They're  not  like  dormice,  that  grow  lean 
With  three  months'  sleep  before  they  wake 
111  fares  he  that  his  sleep  doth  take 

In  youth,  when  rise  and  work  should  he, 
So  that  he  needs  must  watch  and  wake 

In  age,  when  he  should  sleeping  be. 

CXXIV 

Thereof  unto  the  Almoner 

Letters  to  like  effect  I  write. 
If  they  to  pray  for  me  demur, 

Let  pull  their  ears  for  such  despite. 

Folk  often  marvel  all  their  might 
Why  by  these  twain  such  store  set  I ; 

But,  fast  or  feastdays,  honour  bright, 
I  never  came  their  mothers  nigh. 

cxxv 

To  Michault  Culdou  I  bespeak. 

As  also  to  Chariot  Taranne, 
One  hundred  sols.     Let  neither  seek 

Whence;  'twill  be  manna  to  each  man: 


VILLON'S  POEMS  165 

Also  my  boots  of  leather  tan, 
Both  soles  and  uppers,  sundry  pair; 

So  they  forgather  not  with  Jehanne 
Nor  any  other  like  to  her. 

cxxvi 

Unto  the  Seigneur  de  Grigny, 

To  whom  I  left  Bicctre  of  yore, 
I  give  the  castle  of  Billy : 

Provided  window,  gate  and  door 

He  'stablish  as  they  were  before, 
That  so  in  good  repair  it  be. 

Let  him  make  money  evermore; 
For  coin  I  lack  and  none  has  he. 

CXXVII 

To  Thibault  de  la  Garde,  no  less,  .   .  . 

(Thibault?     I  lie:  his  name  is  John) 
What  can  I  spare,  without  distress? 

I've  lost  enough  this  year  bygone: 

^lay  God  provide  him !   .   .   .   and  so  on. 
What* if  I  left  him  the  Canteen? 

No:  Genevoys's  the  elder  one 
And  has  more  nose  to  dip  therein. 

C  XX  VIII 

Item,  I  give  to  Basanier, 

The  judge's  clerk  and  notary, 
A  frail  of  cloves,  which  levied  may 

On  Master  Jehan  de  Rucil  be: 


Ig6  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Mautainct  and  Rosnel  the  like  fee 
Shall  have,  which  them  I  trust  will  stir 

To  serve  with  courage  brisk  and  free 
The  Lord  who  serves  Saint  Christopher; 

cxxix 

On  whom  the  Ballad  following 
For  his  fair  lady  I  bestow:  .  .  . 

If  love  to  us  no  such  prize  fling, 
I  marvel  not ;  for,  whiles  ago. 
He  bore  her  off  from  high  and  low. 

At  that  tourney  King  Rene  made: 
Hector  or  Troilus  ne'er,  I  trow, 

So  much  performed,  so  little  said. 

Ballad  that  Villon  Gave  to  a  Newly 

Married  Gentleman  to  Send  to 

His  Lady  by  Him  Conquered 

at  the  Sword's  Point 


The  falcon  claps  his  wings  at  break  of  day. 

For  noble  usance,  ay,  and  lustihead; 
Frolics  for  glee  and  strikes  and  rends  his  prey; 

Stoops  to  his  mate  and  does  of  her  his  need. 

So  now  to-you-ward  doth  desire  me  lead 
Of  that  all  lovers  long  for  joyously; 

Know,  Love  hath  so  ordained  it  in  his  rede; 
And  to  this  end  we  twain  together  be. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  167 


n 


Queen  of  my  heart,  unquesiioned  and  alway. 

Till  death  consume  me,  thou  shalt  he  indeed. 
Clary,  that  purgest  my  chagrins,  sweet  hay, 
■  That  still  as  champion  for  my  right  dost 

plead. 
Reason  ordains  that  I  should  ne^er  he  freed 
{And  therewithal  my  pleasure  doth  agree) 
From  thy  sweet  service,  while  the  years 
succeed; 
And  to  this  end  we  twain  together  be. 


lU 


And  what  is  more,  when  dule  doth  me  essay, 

Through  Fate  that   oftime  lowers,   with  aH 
speed 
Thy  dulcet  looks  her  malice  do  away. 

As  wind  disperses  smoke  from  hill  and  mead. 

In  no  wise,  sweetest,  do  I  lose  the  seed 
Sown  in  thy  field,  when  the  fruit  likeneth   me; 

God  wills  me  delve  and  fatten  it  and  weed; 
And  to  this  end  we  twain  together  be. 

Envoi 

Princess,  I  pray,  to  my  discourse  give  lieed: 
My  heart  shall  not  dissever  aye  from  thee 

Nor  thine  from  me,  if  it  aright  I  read : 
And  to  this  end  we  twain  togetlier  be. 


168  VILLON'S  POEMS 


cxxx 


Item,  I  give  Jehan  Perdryer  nought, 

And  to  his  brother  Frank  the  same; 
Though  still  to  help  me  they  have  wrought 

And  make  me  sharer  in  their  game ; 

(Tongues  have  they,  sharp  and  fierce  as 
flame:) 
And,  too,  my  gossip  Frank,  of  yore, 

Without  command  or  prayer,  my  name 
At  Bourges  commended  passing  sore. 

cxxxi 

Let  them  in  Taillevent  go  see 

The  chapters  that  of  frying  treat. 

If  they  can  find  my  recipe 

For  dressing  up  this  kind  of  meat: 
'Twas  Saint  Macaire,  I  once  did  meet, 

Cooking  a  devil,  skin  and  all. 

That  so  the  roast  should  smell  more  sweet, 

Gave  me  this  Recipe,  that  I  call. 

Ballad  of  Slanderous  Tongues  * 

CXXXII 

To  Andry  Courault,  next,  give  I 

The  Counterblast  to  Franc-Gontier ; 

As  for  the  Tyrant,  set  on  high, 

I've  nought,  indeed,  to  him  to  say: 


♦This  Ballad  is  omitted. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  169 

Wisdom  forbids  that  in  affray 
With  mighty  men  poor  folk  should  strive, 

Lest  they  spi'cad  nets  across  the  way, 
To  catch  the  vauntards  in  alive. 

CXXXIII 

I  fear  not  Gontier,  that  no  man 

Has  nor  is  better  off  than  I : 
But  now  strife  is  betwixt  us  twain ; 

For  he  exalteth  poverty : 

Good  luck  he  deemeth  it,  perdie, 
Winter  and  summer  to  be  poor. 

Myself,  I  hold  it  misery. 
Who's  wrong?    Be  you  judge,  I  conjure. 

*  This  Ballad  is  omitted. 

Ballad  Entitled  the  Counter 
Blast  to  Fkanc-Gontier 


Athwart  a  hole  in  the  arras,  t'other  day, 
I  saw  a  fat  priest  lie  on  a  down  bed. 

Hard  by  a  fire;  and  by  his  side  there  lay 
Dame  Sydonie,  fidl  comely,  white  and  red: 
By  night  and  day  a  goodly  life  they  led. 

I  watched  them  laugh  and  kiss  and  play,  drink 
high 

Of  spiced  hypocras;       *  *  * 

^r  ^f  "^  "^  ^^ 


170  VILLON'S  POEMS 

*  *  *  Thence  knew  I 

There  is  no  treasure  but  to  have  one's  ease. 


n 


//,  zenth  his  mistress  Helen,  Franc-Gontier 
Had  all  their  life  this  goodly  fashion  sped. 

With  cloves  of  garlic,  rank  of  smell  alway. 
They  had  no  need  to  rub  their  oaten  bread: 
For  all  their  curds  (sans  malice  be  it  said) 

No  jot  I  care,  nor  all  their  cakes  of  rye. 

If  they  delight  beneath  the  rose  to  lie. 

What  say  you?     Must  we  couch  afield  like 
these? 

Like  you  not  better  bed  and  chair  therenigh? 
There  is  no  treasure  but  to  have  one's  ease. 


Ill 


They  eat  coarse  bread  of  barley,  sooth  to  say. 
And  drink  but  water  from  the  heavens  shed: 

Not  all  the  birds  that  singen  all  the  way 
From  here  to  Babylon  coidd  me  persuade 
To  spend  one  day  so  harboured  and  so  fed. 

For  God's  sake  let  Franc-Gontier  none  deny 

To  play  with  Helen  'neath  the  open  sky! 
Why  should  it  irk  me,  if  they  love  the  leas? 

But,  vaunt  who  will  the  joys  of  husbandry. 
There  is  no  treasure  but  to  have  one's  ease. 

Envoi 

Prince,  be  you  judge  betwixt  us  all:  for  my 
Poor  heart  I  mind  me  (so  it  none  displease) 


VILLON'S  POEMS  171 

Whilst  yet  a  child,  I  heard  folk-  testify. 
There  is  no  treasure  but  to  have  one's  ease. 

CXXXIV 

Item,  since  Madame  de  Bruyeres 

Her  bible  knows,  to  ])ubHsh  it 
(Barring  the  Gospels)  unto  her 

And  to  her  damsels  I  connnit, 

To  bring  each  glib-tongued  wanton  chit 
To  book ;  but  be  the  preachment  not 

Within  the  churchyards;  far  more  fit 
'Twere  in  the  net-market,  God  wot. 

Ballad  of  the  Women  of  Paris 


Though  folk  deem  women  young  and  old 

Of  Venice  and  Genoa  well  eno' 
Favoured  with  speech,  both  glib  and  hold. 

To  carry  messages  to  and  fro; 

Savoyards,  Florentines  less  or  more, 
Romans  and  Lombards  though  folk  renown^ 

I,  at  my  peril,  I  say  no; 
There's  no  right  speech  out  of  Paris  town. 


The  Naples  women  (so  we  are  told) 

Can  school  all  comers  in  speech  and  show; 

Prussians  and  Germans  were  still  extolled 
For  pleasant  prattle  of  friend  and  foe; 


172  VILLON'S  POEMS 

But  hail  they  from  Athens  or  Grand  Cairo, 
Castile  or  Hungary,  black  or  brown, 

Greeks  or  Egyptians,  high  or  low. 
There's  no  right  speech  out  of  Paris  town. 


ni 


Switz?rs  nor  Bretons  know  how  to  scold. 
Nor  Provence  nor  Gascony  women:  lo! 
Two  fishfags  in  Paris  the  bridge  that  hold 

Would  slang  them  dumb  in  a  minute  or  so. 

Picardy,  England,  Lorraine,  (heigho! 
Enough  of  places  have  I  set  down?) 

Valenciennes,  Calais,  wherever  you  go. 
There's  no  right  speech  out  of  Paris  town. 

Envoi 

Prince,  to  the  Paris  ladies,  I  trow. 

For  pleasant  parlance  I  yield  the  crown. 

They  may  talk  of  Italians;  but  this  I  know. 
There's  no  right  speech  out  of  Paris  town. 

cxxxv 

Look  at  them  there,  by  twos  and  threes 
Upon  their  gowns'  hem  seated  low, 

In  churches  and  in  nunneries : 

Speak  not,  but  softly  near  them  go 
And  speedily  you'll  come  to  know 

Such  judgments  as  Macrobius  ne'er 
Did  give.     Whate'er  you  catch,  I  trow, 

'Twill  all  some  flower  of  wisdom  bear. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  173 

CXXXVI 

Item,  unto  Mount  Martyr  hill 

(Old  past  the  memory  of  man) 
Let  them  adjoin  (it  is  my  will) 

The  knoll  called  Mount  Valerian: 

I  give  it  for  a  quarter's  span 
The  indulgences  from  Rome  I  brought ; 

Whence  shall  the  convent,  where  no  man 
Might  come,  of  many  now  be  sought. 

CXXXVII 

Item,  to  serving  men  and  maids 
Of  good  hostels  (in  no  despite), 

Pheasants,  tarts,  custards  and  croustades 
And  high  carousal  at  midnight : 
Seven  pints  or  eight,  the  matter's  slight. 

Whilst  sound  asleep  are  lord  and  dame: 

***** 

«  «  «  «  « 

CXXXVIII 

Item,  to  honest  wenches  who 

Have  fathers,  mothers,  aunts  .  .  .  'Fore  God! 
I've  nothing  left  to  give  to  you: 

All  on  the  servants  I've  bestowed. 

Poor  silly  wantons,  they  had  showed 
Themselves   with    little   satisfied ! 

Some  scraps  might  well  have  gone  their  road 
Of  all  the  convents  cast  aside. 


174  VILLON'S  POEMS 

CXXXIX 

Cistercians  and  Celestines, 

Though  they  be  railed  off  from  the  rest, 
They  eat  rich  meats  and  drink  sweet  wines, 

Whereof  poor  whores  know  not  the  zest : 

As  Jehanne  and  Perrctte  can  attest 
And  Isabeau  that  says  "Is't  not?" 

Since  they  therefor  are  so  distrest, 
One  scarce  were  damn'd  for  it,  God  wot. 

CXL 

Item,  to  sturdy  stout  Margot, 

Of  face  and  favour  fair  and  feat, 

A  pious  creature,  too,  eno', — 
I'  faith,  by  God  Almighty  be't, 
I  love  her  well,  the  proper  peat. 

As  she  (sweet  chuck)  loves  me  indeed: 
If  any  chance  with  her  to  meet, 

Let  him  this  Ballad  to  her  read. 

Ballad  of  Villon  and  Muckle  Meg  * 

CXLI 

Item,  to  Marion  (Statue  hight) 
And  to  tall  Jehanne  of  Brittany, 

I  give  to  keep  a  school  by  night. 

Where  masters  taught  of  scholars  be: 

*  This  Ballad  is  omitted. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  175 

A  thing  you  everywhere  may  see, 
Except  in  Mehun  gaol  alone. 

Wherefore  I  say,  Out  on  the  fee! 
Since  that  the  trick  is  so  well  known. 

CXLII 

Item,  to  Noel  Well-beseen 

No  other  gift  I  do  ordain 
Than  both  hands  full  of  osiers  green. 

Out  of  my  garden  freshly  ta'en : 

(One  should  to  chastisement  be  fain; 
In  sooth  it  is  fair  almsgiving:) 

Eleven  score  strokes  laid  on  amain,  • 
Of  Master  Hal's  administ'ring. 

CXLIIl 

Item,  Ihe  Hospitals  unto 

What  to  bequeath  I  hardly  know: 
Here  jests  are  neither  right  nor  due, 

For  sick  poor  folk  have  ills  eno' : 

Let  each  man's  leavings  to  them  go. 
The  Mendicants  have  had  my  goose: 

Nought  but  the  bones  they'll  get,  I  trow; 
The  poor  can  seldom  pick  and  choose. 

CXLIV 

I  give  my  barber,  (an  he  list)  — 
By  name  that  Colin  Galerne  hight. 


176  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Near  Angelot's  the  Herbalist, — 
A  lump  of  ice:  let  him  applv't 
Upon  his  paunch  and  hold  it  tight, 

So  he  may  freeze  as  seems  him  meet: 
If  thus  o'  winter  deal  the  wight, 

He'll  not  complain  of  summer  heat, 

CXLV 

Item,  I  leave  the  Foundlings  nought: 

But  to  the  Lostlings  comfort's  due, 
Who  should,  if  anywhere,  be  sought 

Where  lodges  Marion  the  Statue. 

A  lesson  of  my  sort  to  you 
I'll  read :  'twill  soon  be  overpast. 

Turn  not,  I  pray,  deaf  cars  thereto, 
But  listen  sadly :  'tis  the  last. 

Seemly  Lesson  of  Villon  to  the 
good-for-noughts 


Fair  sons,  you're  wasting,  ere  you're  old. 
The  fairest  rose  to  you  that  jell. 

You,  that  like  the  birdlime  take  and  hold. 
When  to  Montpippeau  or  Ruel 

{My  clerks)  you  wander,  keep  you  well: 
For  of  the  tricks  that  there  he  played. 

Thinking  to  'scape  a  second  spell, 

Colin  of  Cayevlx  lost  his  head. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  177 


No  trifling  game  is  this  to  play. 

Where  one  stakes  soul  and  body  too: 
If  losers,  no  remorse  can  stay 

A  shameful  death  from  ending  you; 

And  even  the  winner,  for  his  due. 
Hath  not  a  Dido  to  his  wife. 

Foolish  and  lewd  I  hold  him  who 
Doth  for  so  little  risk  his  life. 


Ill 


Now  all  of  you  to  me  attend: 

Even  a  load  of  wine,  folk  say. 
With  drinking  at  last  comes  to  an  end. 

By  fire  in  winter,  in  woods  vn  May. 

If  you  have  money,  it  doth  not  stay. 
But  this  way  and  that  it  wastes  amain: 

What  does  it  profit  you,  anyway? 
Ill-gotten  good  is  nobody'' s  gain? 

Ballad  of  Good  Doctrine  to  Those 
OF  III  Life 


Peddle  indulgences,  as  you  may: 

Cog  the  dice  for  your  cheating  throws: 

Try  if  counterfeit  coin  zcill  pay. 

At  risk  of  roasting  at  last,  like  those 
That  deal  in  treason.     Lie  and  glose. 


178  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Rob  and  ravish:  what  profit  it? 

Who  gets  the  purchase,  do  you  suppose? 
Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 

n 

Rhyme,  rail,  wrestle  and  cymbals  play: 

Flute  and  fool  it  in  mummers'  shows: 
Along  with  the  strolling  players  stray 

From  town  to  city,  without  repose; 

Act  mysteries,  farces,  imbroglios: 
Win  money  at  gleek  or  a  lucky  hit 

At  the  pins:  like  water,  away  it  flows; 
Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 

ni 

Turn  from  your  evil  courses  I  pray. 
That  smell  so  foul  in  a  decent  nose: 

Earn  your  bread  in  some  honest  way. 

If  you  have  no  letters,  nor  verse  nor  prose. 
Plough  or  groom  horses,  beat  hemp  or  toze. 

Enough  shall  you  have  if  you  think  but  fit : 
But  cast  not  your  wage  to  each  wind  that 
blows; 

Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 

Envoi 

Doublets,  pourpoints  and  silken  hose. 
Gowns  and  linen,  woven  or  knit. 

Ere  your  wede's  worn,  away  it  goes; 
Taverns  and  wenches,  every  whit. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  179 


CXLVI 

Companions  in  debauchery, 

111  souls  and  bodies  well  bestead, 

Beware  of  that  ill  sun   (look  ye) 
That  tans  a  man  when  he  is  dead: 
'Tis  a  foul  death  to  die,  I  dread. 

Keep  yourselves  from  it,  so  you  may; 
And  be  this  still  remembered, 

That  all  of  you  must  die  some  day. 

CXLVII 

Item,  I  give  the  Fifteen-score — 

(Three  hundred  just  as  well  'tmight  be)- 

For  that  by  them  I  set  great  store, 
(Paris,  nor  Provins  ones,  for  me)  — 
My  goggles  (sans  the  case,  perdie) 

So  in  the  churchyards  where  they  serve. 
They  may  the  bad  to  sever  see 

From  honest  folk  that  well  deserve. 

CXLVIII 

Here  *  silence  doth  forever  reign : 
Nothing  it  profiteth  the  dead 

On  beds  of  satin  to  have  lain 

And  drunk  from  gold  the  vine-juice  red 
And  lived  in  glee  and  lustihead. 

Soon  all  such  joys  must  be  resigned: 
*  i.e.,  in  the  churchyards. 


180  VILLON'S  POEMS 

All  pass  away,  and  in  their  stead 
Only  the  sin  remains  behind. 

CXLIX 

When  I  consider  all  the  heads 

That  in  these  charnels  gathered  be, 

Those  that  are  sleeping  in  these  beds 
May  have  (for  aught  that  I  can  see) 
Been  mighty  lords  of  high  degree, 

Bishops  and  dames, — or  else  poor  churls 
There  is  no  difference  to  me 

'Twixt  watercarriers'  bones  and  earls. 


CL 


These  ladies  all,  that  in  their  day 

Each  against  each  did  bend  and  bow, 

Whereof  did  some  the  sceptre  sway, 
Of  others  feared  and  courted, — now 
Here  are  they  sleeping  all  a-row, 

Heaped  up  together  anydele, 

Their  crowns  and  honours  all  laid  low. 

Masters  or  clerks,  there's  no  appeal. 


CLI 


Now  are  they  dead,  God  have  their  sprights ! 

As  for  their  bodies,  they  are  clay : 
Once  they  were  ladies,  lords  and  knights. 

That  on  soft  bods  of  satin  lay 


VILLON'S  POEMS  181 

And  feed  on  dainties  every  day. 
Their  bones  are  mouldered  into  dust, 

They  reck  not  now  of  laugh  or  play: 
Christ  will  assoilzie  them,  I  trust. 

CLII 

I  make  this  ditty  for  the  dead: 

The  which  I  do  communicate 
To  Courts  and  Pleas,  ill  doers'  dread, 

That  unjust  avarice  do  hate; 

That  for  the  welfare  of  the  state 
Do  work  their  bones  and  bodies  dry: 

God  and  St.  Dominick  abate 
Their  sins  unto  them  when  they  die. 

CLIII 

Item,  Jacques  Cardon  nought  of  me 

(For  nought  I  have  for  him)  shall  get, 

— Not  that  he'd  throw't  away,  perdie — 
Except  this  roundel ;  if  'twere  set 
To  some  such  tunc  as  "Marionette," 

Composed  for  Marion  Slow-to-come, 
Or  "Hold  your  door  open,  Guillemette 

It  might  belike  the  vogue  become. 

Roundel 

On  my  release  from  prison  strait. 
Where  I  have  left  my  life  well-nigh. 
If  Fate  still  look  at  me  awry. 


» 


182  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Judge  if  she  be  inveterate! 
Reason  meseemeth,  past  debate. 
Her  malice  she  should  mollify 
On  my  release. 

Full  of  unreason  is  this  Fate, 

Which  willeth  but  that  I  should  die: 
God  grant  that  in  His  house  on  high 

My  SGul  be  ravished  from  her  hate. 
On  my  release. 

CLIV 

This  gift  shall  Lomer  have  of  me, 
— As  sure  as  I'm  a  fairy's  son, — 

That  he  shall  "well-beloved"  be, 

But  wench  or  woman  love  he  none 
Nor  lose  his  head  for  any  one. 

And  that  an  hundred  times  a  night 
The  trick  for  nought  of  him  be  done, 

In  spite  of  Holger  the  good  knight. 

CLV 

To  lovers  sick  and  sorrowful, 

(As  well  as  Alain  Chartier's  Lay,) 

At  bedhead,  a  benature-full 

Of  tears  I  give,  and  eke  a  spray 
Of  eglatere  or  flowering  May, 

(To  sprinkle  with)  in  time  of  green; 
Provided  they  a  Psalter  say. 

To  save  poor  Villon's  soul  from  teen. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  183 

CLVI 

To  Master  James,  that  day  and  night 

Himself  at  hoarding  wealth  doth  kill, 
I  give  as  many  girls  to  plight 

(But  none  to  marry)  as  he  will. 

For  whom  doth  he  his  coffers  fill? 
For  those  that  are  his  kin,  alack! 

That  which  the  sows'  was,  I  hold  ill 
Should  to  the  porkers  not  go  back. 

CLVII 

Unto  the  Seneschal  I  bequeath, — 

(Who  once  from  debt  did  me  release) 
Besides  the  quality  of  Smith, — 

The  right  of  shoeing  ducks  and  geese. 

I  send  him  all  these  fooleries. 
To  help  him  pass  away  the  time, 

Or  make  him  spillets  if  he  please: 
One  wearies  of  the  best  of  rhyme. 

CLVIII 

The  Captain  of  the  Watch,  also — 
Two  proper  youths  to  serve  as  page; 

Marquet  the  Stout  and  Philippot, 
Who  for  the  most  part  of  their  age 
Have  served  (whence  are  they  the  more  sage) 

The  Blacksmiths'  Provost.      Wollaway ! 
If  they  should  chance  to  lose  their  wage. 

They  must  go  shoeless  many  a  day. 


184  VILLON'S  POEMS 


CLIX 


Item,  to  Chappelain  let  there  pass 

My  simple-tonsure  chapelry, 
Charged  but  with  saying  a  low  mass : 

There  little  letters  needed  be. 

My  cure  of  souls  he  should  of  me 
Have  had ;  but  no  one  to  confess 

(To  go  by  what  he  sa^^s)  cares  he, 
Save  chambermaids  and  mistresses. 


CLX 

Since  my  intent  he  well  doth  know, 

To  Jehan  de  Calais — (worthy  wight! 

Who  saw  me  thirty  years  ago 

And  hath  not  since  on  me  set  sight, 
Indeed,  nor  knoweth  how  I  hight)  — 

If  in  this  Testament  befall 

Or  hitch  or  doubt,  I  give  full  right 

To  solve  and  mend  them,  one  and  ail. 

CLXI 

To  glose  upon  it  and  comment, 

Define,  eliminate,  prescribe. 
Diminish  aught  or  aught  augment, 

To  cancel  it  or  it  transcribe 

With  his  own  hand,  although  no  scribe 
He  be;  such  sense  as  he  thinks  fit. 

At  pleasure,  good  or  bad,  ascribe 
Thereto:  I  sanction  all  of  it. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  185 


CLXII 

And  if,  perchance,  some  legatee. 

Without  my  knowledge,  should  be  dead. 
It  shall  -at  the  discretion  be 

Of  Jehan  de  Calais  aforesaid 

To  see  my  will  interpreted. 
And  otherwise  the  gift  apply 

Nor  take  it  for  himself  instead: 
I  charge  him  on  his  soul  thereby. 

CLXIII 

Item,  my  body,  I  ordain, 

Shall  at  St.  Avoye  buried  be: 
And  that  my  friends  may  there  again 

My  image  and  presentment  see, 

Let  one  the  semblant  limn  of  me 
In  ink,  if  that  be  not  too  dear. 

No  other  monument,  perdie: 
'Twould  overload  the  floor,  I  fear. 

CLXIV 

Item,  I  will  that  over  it 

That  which  ensues,  without  word  more, 
In  letters  large  enough  to  be  writ : 

If  ink  fail  (as  I  said  before), 

Let  them  the  words  with  charcoal  score, 
So  they  do  not  the  plaster  drag: 

'Twill  serve  to  keep  my  name  in  store. 
As  that  of  a  good  crack-brained  wag. 


186  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Epitaph 

CLXV 

Here  lies  and  slumbers  in  this  :^lace 
One  whom  Love  wreaked  his  ire  upon: 

A  scholar,  poor  of  goods  and  grace, 
That  hight  of  old  Francois  Villon: 
Acre  or  furrow  had  he  none. 

'TiS   KNOWN   his  all   HE   GAVE   AWAY; 

Bread,  tables,  tressels,  all  are  gone. 
Gallants,  of  him  this  roundel  say. 

Roundel 

^ternam  Requiem  dona, 

Lord  God,  and  everlasting  light. 
To  him  who  never  had,  poor  Txnght, 

Platter,  or  aught  thereon  to  lay! 

Hair,  eyebrows,  heard  all  fallen  away. 
Like  a  peeled  turnip  was  his  plight. 

jEternam  Requiem  dona. 

ExHe  compelled  him  many  a  day 

And  death  at  last  his  breech  did  smite. 
Though,  "7  appeal,"  with  all  his  might 

The  man  in  good  plain  speech  did  say. 

iEternam  Requiem  dona. 

CLXVI 

Item,  I  will  they  toll  for  me 

The  "Belfry"  Bell,  that  is  so  great 


VILLON'S  POEMS  187 

Of  voice,  that  all  astonicd  be 

When  he  is  tolled,  early  or  late. 

Many  a  good  city,  of  old  date, 
He  saved,  as  every  one  doth  know ; 

Thunder  or  war,  all  ills  abate 
When  through  the  land  his  voices  go. 

CLXVII 

Four  loaves  the  ringers'  wage  shall  be: 

If  that  too  little,  six:  (that  is 
What  rich  folk  wont  to  give  for  fee:) 

But  they  St.  Stephen's  loaves,  ywis, 

Shall  he.     Let  Vollant  share  in  this; 
A  man  that  earns  his  living  hard: 

'Twill  furnish  forth  a  week  of  his. 
The  other  one.?     Jehan  de  la  Garde. 

CLXVIII 

Item,  to  carry  out  this  all. 

As  my  executors  I  name 
Men  who  are  good  to  deal  withal 

And  never  shirk  an  honest  claim : 

They're  no  great  vauntards,  all  the  same. 
Though  they've  good  cause  for  it,  perdie ; 

They  shall  fulfill  my  thought  and  aim: 
Write,  I  will  name  six  names  to  thee. 

CLXIX 

First,  Master  Martin  de  Bellefaye, 
The   King's   Lieutenant-criminel. 


188  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Who  shall  be  next?     Whom  shall  I  say? 
It  shall  be  Messire  Colombel : 
If,  as  I  think,  it  like  him  well. 

He'll  undertake  this  charge  for  me. 
The  third  one?    Michel  Jouvenel: 

I  give  the  office  to  these  three. 

CLXX 

Natheless,  in  case  they  should  excuse 
Themselves  therefrom,  for  fear  of  fees, 

Or  altogether  should  refuse, 

I  name  as  their  successors  these, 
Good  men  and  true  in  their  degrees: 

Philip  Brunei,  the  noble  squire, 

For  next,  his  neighbour  (an  he  please). 

Master  Jacques  Raguyer,  I  desire. 

CLXXl 

Master  Jacques  James  shall  be  the  third: 
Three  men  of  worth  and  good  renown, 

That  for  believers  in  God's  Word 

And  right  God-fearing  souls  are  known : 
Far  rather  would  they  spend  their  own 

Than  not  my  full  intent  fulfil 

No  auditor  on  them  shall  frown: 

They  shall  do  all  at  their  own  will. 

CLXXII 

The  Register  of  Wills  from  me 

Shall  have  nor  quid  nor  quod,  I  trow: 


VILLON'S  POEMS  189 

But  every  penny  of  his  fee 

To  Tricot,  the  young  priest,  shall  go; 

At  whose  expense  gladly  eno' 
I'd  drink,  though  it  my  nightcap  cost: 

If  but  he  knew  the  dice  to  throw, 
Of  Perrette's  Den  I'd  make  him  host. 

CLXXIII  ~  '  ^ 

Guillaume  du  Ru,  for  funeral, 

Shall  see  the  chapel  duly  lit; 
And  as  to  who  shall  bear  the  pall, 

Let  my  executors  order  it. 

And  now,  my  body  every  whit 
(Groin,  eyebrows,  hair  and  beard  and  all) 

Being  racked  with  pain,  the  time  seems  fit 
To  cry  folk  mercy,  great  and  small. 

Ballad  Crying  All  Folk  Mercy 


Freres,  he  they  white  or  be  they  grey; 

Nuns,  mumpers,  chanters  awry  that  tread 
And  clink  their  pattens  on  each  highway; 

Lackeys  and  handmaids,  apparelled 

In  tight- fitting  sur coats,  white  and  red; 
Gallants,  whose  boots  o'er  their  ankles  fall. 

That  vaunt  and  ruffle  it  unadread ; 
I  cry  folk  mercy,  one  and  all. 


190  VILLON'S  POEMS 


II 


Wantons  who  all  their  charms  display. 

That  so  more  custom  to  them  be  led. 
Brawlers  and  jugglers  and  tumblers  gay; 

Clowns  witli  their  apes  and  carpet  spread; 

Players  that  whistle  for  lustihead. 
As  they  trudge  it  'twixt  village  and  town  and 
hall; 

Gentle  and  simple,  living  and  dead, — 
I  cry  folk  mercy,  one  and  all. 


rn 


Save  only  the  treacherous  beasts  of  prey. 

That  garred  me  batten  on  prison  bread 
And  water,  many  a  night  and  day. 

I  fear  them  not  now,  no,  not  a  shred; 

And  gladly  {but  that  I  lie  a-bed 
And  have  small  stomach  for  strife  or  brawl) 

I'd  have  my  wreak  of  them.    Now,  instead, 
I  cry  folk  mercy,  one  and  all. 

Envoi 

So  but  the  knaves  be  ribroasted 

And  basted  well  with  an  oaken  maul 

Or  some  stout  horsewhip  weighted  with  lead, 
I  cry  folk  mercy,  one  and  all. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  191 

Ballad,  by  Way  of  Ending 


Here  is  ended  {both  great  and  small) 

Poor  Villon's  Testament!     Wh^n  he  is  dead. 
Come,  I  pray,  to  his  funeral. 

Whilst  the  bell  tinkles  overhead. 

Come  in  cramozin  garmented; 
For  to  Love  martyr  did  lie  die. 

TJiereof  he  swore  on  his  manWi^ad, 
Whenas  he  felt  his  end  draw  nigh. 

n 

For  me,  I  warrant  it  true  in  all; 

For  of  hi^  love,  in  shameful  stead. 
He  was  beaten  off,  like  a  bandy-ball. 

From  here  to  Roussillon  as  lie  fled. 
There's  ne'er  a  bramble  but  tore  some  shred 
Of  hose  or  jerkin  from  hip  or  thigh; 

So,  without  leasing,  Villon  said, 
Whenas  he  felt  his  end  draw  nigh. 

m 

In  such  ill  places  his  life  did  fall. 
He  had  but  a  rag  when  he  was  sped : 

And  (yet  more  luckless)  when  death  did  call. 
Love's  prickle  galled  him;  its  wounds  still  bled 
In  him.     His  heart  was  heavy  as  lead 

And  salt  tears  stood  in  his  dying  eye: 
At  his  despair  we  were  wondered. 

Whenas  he  felt  his  end  draw  nigh. 


192  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Envoi 

Prince,  that  art  gent  as  a  yearling  gled, 
Hear  what  he  did  with  his  latest  sigh: 

He  drank  a  long  draught  of  the  vine-juice  red, 
Whenas  he  felt  his  end  draw  nigh. 

Here  Endeth  the  Greater  Testament 
OF  Master  Francois  Villon 


DIVERS  POEMS 


Here  Follow  Divers  Poems  of  Master  Fran- 
cois   Villon,    Not    Being    Part    of    His 

Lesser  and  Greater  Testaments 

Ballad  of  Villon  in  Prison 


Have  pity,  friends,  have  pity  now,  I  pray, 
If  it  so  please  you,  at  the  least,  on  me! 

I  lie  in  fosse,  not  under  holm  or  may 
In  this  duresse,  wherein,  alas !  I  dree 
III  fate,  as  God  did  thereanent  decree. 

Lasses  and  lovers,  younglings  manifold. 

Dancers  and  mountebanks,  alert  and  bold. 
Nimble  as  squirrel  from  a  crossbow  shot 

Singers,  that  troll  as  clear  as  bells  of  gold, — 
Will  you  all  leave  poor  Villon  h-ere  to  rot? 


n 


Clerks,  that  go  carolling  the  livelong  day. 

Scant-pursed,  but  glad  and  frank  and  full  of  glee ; 

Wandering  at  will  along  the  broad  highway. 

Harebrained,  perchance,  but  wit-whole  toe,  perdie: 
Lo !  now,  I  die,  whilst  that  you  absent  be 

Song-singers,  when  poor  Villon's  days  are  told. 

You  will  sing  psalms  for  him  and  candles  hold; 
Here  light  nor  air  nor  levin  enters  not. 

Where  ramparts  thick  are  round  about  him  rolle^l. 
Will  you  all  leave  poor  Villon  here  to  rot? 

195 


196  VILLON'S  POEMS 


in 


Consider  but  his  piteous  array, 

High  and  fair  lords,  of  suit  and  service  free, 
That  nor  to  king  nor  kaiser  homage  pay, 

But  straight  from  God  in  heaven  hold  your  fee ! 

Come  fast  or  feast,  all  days  alike  fasts  he. 
Whence  are  his  teeth  like  rakes'  teeth  to  behold : 
No  table  hath  he  but  the  sheer  black  mould 

After  dry  bread  (not  manchets),  pot  on  pot 
They  empty  down  his  throat  of  water  cold: 

WiU  you  all  leave  poor  Villon  here  to  rot? 

Envoi 

Princes  and  lords  aforesaid,  young  and  old. 
Get  me  the  King  his  letters  sealed  and  scrolled 

And  draw  me  from  this  dungeon:  for,  God  wot. 
Even  swine,  when  one  squeaks  in  the  butcher's  fold, 
Flock  around  their  fellow  and  do  squeak  and  scold. 

WUl  you  all  leave  poor  Villon  here  to  rot? 

The  Quatrain  that  Villon  Made  when 
He  W^as  Doomed  to  Die 

FRAN901S  am  I, — woe  worth  it  me ! 

At  Paris  born,  near  Pontoise  citie, 

Whose  neck,  in  the  bight  of  a  rope  of  three, 

Must  prove  how  heavy  my  buttocks  be. 

Variant  to  the  Foregoing  Epitaph 

FRAN901S  am  I, — woe  worth  it  me ! 

— Corbier  my  surname  is  aright:  > 


VILLON'S  POEMS  197 

Native  of  Auvers,  near  Pontoise  citie; 

Of  folk  for  sobriquet  Villon  hight. 

But  for  the  gallant  appeal  I  made, 
My  neck,  in  the  bight  of  a  rope  of  three, 

Had  known  ere  this  what  my  buttocks  weighed. 

The  game  scarce  seemed  to  me  worth  to  be  played. 

The  Epitaph  in  Ballad  Form  that  Villon  Made 

FOR  Himself  and  His  Companions,  Expecting 

NO  Better  than  to  Be  Hanged  in 

Their  Company 


Brothers,  that  after  us  on  life  remain, 

Harden  your  hearts  against  us  not  as  stone ; 
For,  if  to  pity  us  poor  wights  you're  fain, 

God  shall  the  rather  grant  you  benison. 

You  see  us  six,  the  gibbet  hereupon: 
As  for  the  flesh  that  we  too  well  have  fed, 
'Tis  all  devoured  and  rotted,  shred  by  shred. 

Let  none  make  merry  of  our  piteous  case, 
Whose  crumbling  bones  the  life  long  since  hath  fled: 

The  rather  pray,  God  grant  us  of  His  grace! 


n 


Yea,  we  conjure  you,  look  not  with  disdain, 
Brothers,  on  us,  though  we  to  death  were  done 

By  justice.     Well  you  know,  the  saving  grain 
Of  sense  springs  not  in  every  mother's  son : 
Commend  us,  therefore,  now  we're  dead  and  gone. 


198  VILLON'S  POEMS 

To  Christ,  the  Son  of  Mary's  maidenhead, 
That  he  leave  not  His  grace  on  us  to  shed 

And  save  us  from  the  nether  torture-place. 
Let  no  one  harry  us :  forsooth,  we're  sped : 

The  rather  pray,  God  grant  us  of  His  grace! 

Ill 

We  are  whiles  scoured  and  soddened  of  the  rain 

And  whiles  burnt  up  and  blackened  of  the  sun : 
Corbies  and  pyets  have  our  eyes  out-ta'en 

And  plucked  our  beard  and  hair  out,  one  by  one. 

Whether  by  night  or  day,  rest  have  we  none : 
Now  here,  now  there,  as  the  wind  shifts  its  stead. 
We  swing  and  creak  and  rattle  overhead. 

No  thimble  dinted  like  our  bird-pecked  face. 
Brothers,  have  heed  and  shun  the  life  we  led: 

The  rather  pray,  God  grant  us  of  His  grace! 

Envoi 

Prince  Jesus,  over  all  empowered. 

Let  us  not  fall  into  the  Place  of  Dread, 

But  all  our  reckoning  with  the  Fiend  efface. 
Folk,  mock  us  not  that  are  forspent  and  dead ; 

The  rather  pray,  God  grant  us  of  His  grace! 

The  Request  of  Villon  Presented  to  the  High 
Court  of  Parliament  in  Ballad  Form 


All  my  five  senses,  in  your  several  place, 

Hearing  and  seeing,  taste  and  touch  and  smell. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  199 

Every  my  member  branded  with  disgrace, — 
Each  on  this  fashion  do  ye  speak  and  tell : 
"Most  Sovereign  Court,  by  whom  we  here  befell. 

Thou  that  deliveredst  us  from  sore  dismays, 

The  tongue  sufficeth  not  thy  name  to  blaze 
Forth  in  such  strain  of  honour  as  it  should: 

Wherefore  to  thee  our  voices  all  we  raise, 
Sister  of  angels,  mother  of  the  good!" 

n 

Heart,  cleave  in  sunder,  or  in  any  case 

Be  not  more  hardened  and  impermeable 
Than  was  the  black  rock  in  the  desert-space, 

Which  with  sweet  water  for  the  Jews  did  swell; 

Melt  into  tears  and  mercy  call,  as  well 
Befits  a  lowly  heart  that  Immbly  prays : 
Give  to  the  Court,  the  kingdom's  glory,  praise, — 

The  Frenchman's  stay,  the  help  of  strangerhood, 
Born  of  high  heaven  amidst  the  empyreal  rays : 

Sister  of  angels,  mother  of  the  good! 

in 

And  you,  mj'  teeth,  your  sockets  leave  apace; 

Come  forward,  all,  and  loudlier  than  bell, 
Organ  or  clarion,  render  thanks  for  grace 

And  every  thought  of  chewing  now  repel. 

Bethink  you,  I  was  doomed  to  death  and  hell. 
Heart,  spleen  and  liver  palsied  with  affra>'s : 
And  you,  my  body,  (else  you  were  more  base 

Than  bear  or  swine  that  in  the  dunghill  brood,) 
Extol  the  Court,  ere  worser  hap  a,maze; 

Sister  of  angels,  mother  of  the  good! 


200  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Envoi 

Prince,  oi  thy  grace  deny  me  not  three  days 
To  bid  my  friends  adieu  and  go  my  ways  : 

Without  them,  I've  nor  money,  clothes  nor  food. 
Triumphant  Court,  be't  as  thy  suppliant  says; 

Sister  of  angels,  mother  of  the  good! 

Ballad  of  Villon's  Appeal 


Garnier,  how  like  you  my  appeal? 

Did  I  wisely,  or  did  I  ill? 
Each  beast  looks  to  his  own  skin's  weal : 

If  any  bind  him,  to  keep  or  kill, 

He  does  himself  free  to  the  best  of  his  skill. 
When,  then,  sans  reason,  to  me  was  sung 

This  pleasant  psalm  of  a  sentence,  still 
Was  it  a  time  to  hold  my  tongue? 


II 


Were  I  of  Capet's  race  somedele 

(Whose  kin  were  butchers  on  Montmartre  hill) 
They  had  not  bound  me  with  iron  and  steel 

Nor  forced  me  to  swizzle  more  than  my  fill : 

(You  know  the  trick  of  it,  will  or  nill?) 
But,  when  of  malice  prepense  and  wrong, 

They  doomed  me  to  swallow  this  bitter  pill. 
Was  it  a  time  to  hold,  my  tongue?  ^ 


VILLON'S  POEMS  201 


III 


Think  you  that  under  my  cap  I  feel 
Not  reason  nor  ableness  there  until, 

Sufficient  to  say,  "I  do  appeal"? 

Enougli  was  left  me  (as  warrant  I  will) 
To  keep  me  from  holding  my  clapper  still, 

When  jargon,  that  meant  "You  shall  be  hung" 
They  read  to  me  from  the  notary's  bill : 

[Was  it  a  time  to  hold  my  tongue? 

Envoi 

Prince,  had  I  had  the  pip  in  my  bill. 
Long  before  this  I  should  have  swung, 

A  scarecrow  hard  by  Montfaucon  mill! 
Was  it  a  time  to  hold  my  tongue? 


Ballad  of  Proverbs 


Goats  scratch  until  they  spoil  their  bed : 
Pitcher  to  well  too  oft  we  send: 

The  iron's  heated  till  it's  red 

And  hammered  till  in  twain  it  rend: 
The  tree  grows  as  the  twig  we  bend: 

Men  journey  till  they  disappear 

Even  from  the  memory  of  a  friend: 

We  shout  out  "Noer  till  it's  here. 


202  VILLON'S  POEMS 


II 


Some  mock  until  their  hearts  do  bleed: 

Some  are  so  frank  that  they  offend: 
Some  waste  until  they  come  to  need : 

A  promised  gift  is  ill  to  spend: 

Some  love  God  till  from  church  they  trend; 
Wind  shifts  until  to  North  it  veer : 

Till  forced  to  borrow  do  we  lend: 
We  shout  out  ''Noel"  till  it's  here. 


in 


Dogs  fawn  on  us  till  them  we  feed : 
Song's  sung  until  by  heart  it's  kenned : 

Fruit's  kept  until  it  rot  to  seed : 

The  leagurcd  place  falls  in  the  end : 
Folk  linger  till  the  occasion  wend: 

Haste  oft  throws  all  things  out  of  gear : 
One  clips  until  the  grasp's  o'erstrained: 

We  shout  out  "NoeV'  till  it's  here. 


Envoi 

Prince,  fools  live  so  long  that  they  mend: 
They  go  so  far  that  they  draw  near: 

They're  cozened  till  they  apprehend: 
We  shout  out  "Noel"  till  it's  here. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  203 

Ballad  of  Things  Known  and  Unknown 


Flies  in  the  milk  I  know  full  well : 

I  know  men  by  the  clothes  they  wear: 

I  know  the  walnut  by  the  shell : 

I  know  the  foul  sky  from  the  fair: 
I  know  the  pear-tree  by  the  pear: 

I  know  the  worker  from  the  drone 

And  eke  the  good  wheat  from  the  tare: 

/  know  all  save  mi/self  alone. 

II 

I  know  the  pourpoint  by  the  fell 
And  by  his  gown  I  know  the  frere: 

Master  by  varlet  I  can  spell : 

Nuns  by  the  veils  that  hide  their  hair: 
T  know  the  sharper  and  his  snare 

And  fools  that  fat  on  catcs  have  grown: 
Wines  by  the  cask  I  can  compare : 

I  know  all  save  myself  alone, 

III 

I  know  how  horse  from  mule  to  tell : 
I  know  the  load  that  each  can  bear : 

I  know  both  Beatrice  and  Bell : 
I  know  the  hazards,  odd  and  pair: 
I  know  of  visions  in  the  air: 

I  know  the  power  of  Peter's  throne 
And  how  misled  Bohemians  were: 

/  know  all  save  myself  alone. 


204  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Envoi 

Prince,  I  know  all  things :  fat  and  spare ; 

Rudy  and  pale,  to  me  are  known : 
And  Death  that  endeth  all  our  care: 

/  know  all  save  myself  alone. 

Ballab  of  Poor  Chimneysweeps 


Men  talk  of  those  the  fields  that  till ; 

Of  those  that  sift  out  chaff  from  corn ; 
Of  him  that  has,  will  he  or  nill, 

A  wife  that  scoldeth  night  and  morn, — 

As  folk  hard  driven  and  forlorn : 
Of  men  that  often  use  the  sea ; 
Of  monks  that  of  poor  convents  be; 

Of  those  behind  the  ass  that  go: 
But,  when  all  things  consider  we, 

Poor  chimneysweeps  have  toil  eno\ 


n 


To  govern  boys  and  girls  with  skill, 
God  wot,  's  no  labour  lightly  borne: 

Nor  to  serve  ladies  at  Love's  will ; 
Or  do  knight  suit  at  sound  of  horn, 
Helmet  and  harness  always  worn. 

And  follow  arms  courageously: 

To  joust  and  tilt  with  spears,  perdie, 


VILLON'S  POEMS  205 

And  quintain  play,  is  hard,  I  know; 
But,  when  all  things  consider  we, 
Poor  chimneysweeps  have  toil  eno*. 


ui 


God  wot,  they  suffer  little  ill 

By  whom  wheat's  reaped  and  meadows 
shorn ; 
Or  those  that  thresh  grain  for  the  mill 
Or  plead  the  Parliament  beforne : 
To  borrow  money's  little  scorn ; 
Tinkers  and  carters  have  to  dree 
But  little  hardship,  seemeth  me ; 

Nor  does  Lent  irk  us  much,  I  trow: 
But,  when  all  things  consider  we. 
Poor  chimneysweeps  have  toil  eno*, 
[Envoi  deest.] 

Ballad  of  Fortune 


I  OF  old  time  by  makers  Fortune  hight — 

Whom,  Fran9ois,  thou  dost  rail  at  and  decry,—* 

Far  better  men  than  thou,  poor  nameless  wight, 
I  grind  into  the  dust  with  poverty 
And  gar  them  delve  i'  the  quarries  till  they  die: 

Wherefore  cornplainest  thou?     If  thou  live  ill, 

Thou  art  not  singular:  so,  peace,  be  still. 
Think  but  how  many  niiglity  men  of  3'ore 
I've  laid  stark  dead  to  stiffen  in  their  gore. 


206  VILLON'S  POEMS 

By  whom  thou'rt  but  a  scullion  knave,  perdie. 

Content  thee,  then,  and  chide  thy  fate  no  m»re; 
/  rede  thee,  Villon,  take  it  all  in  gree. 

n 

Oft  have  I  girded  me  to  wreak  mj^  spite 

Upon  great  kings :  lo,  in  the  days  gone  by, 

Priam  I  slew ;  and  all  his  warlike  might 

Availed  him  nought,  towers,  walls  nor  ramparts 

high. 
'Gainst  Hannibal  no  less  did  I  apply. 

Who  was  attaint  in  Carthage  by  my  skill: 

And  Scipio  Africanus  did  I  kill: 

Great  Cassar  to  the  Senate  I  gave  o'er 

And  wrecked  stout  Pompey  upon  Egypt  shore : 

Jason  I  drowned  by  tempest  on  the  sea 

And  burned  both  Rome  and  Romans  heretofore: 

/  rede  thee,  Villon,  take  it  all  in  gree. 

in 

Nay,  Alexander,  that  renowned  knight, 

Who  longed  to  reach  the  backward  of  the  sky 

And  shed  much  blood,  with  poison  did  I  blight ; 
I  made  Arphaxad  on  the  field  to  lie, 
Dead,  by  his  royal  standard.     Thus  did  I 

Full  many  a  time  and  yet  more  will  fulfil : 

Nor  time  nor  reason  can  awry  my  will. 
Huge  Holophernes,  too,  that  did  adore 
Strange  gods,  whom  Judith  with  his  sword  of  war 

Slew  as  he  slept ;  and  Absalom,  as  he 

Fled,  by  the  love-locks  hanged  I  that  he  wore. 

/  rede  thee,  Villon,  take  it  all  in  gree. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  2#7 

Envoi 

Poor  Fran9ois,  set  my  rede  in  thy  heart's  core: 
If  I  could  aught  without  God's  leave  or  lore, 

I'd  leave  no  rag  to  one  of  all  that  be ; 
For  each  ill  done  I'd  compass  half  a  score: 

/  rede  thee,  Villon,  take  it  all  in  gree. 

Ballad  Against  Those  Who 
MissAY  OF  France 


Let  him  meet  beasts  that  breathe  out  fiery  rail 
Even  as  did  Jason  hard  by  Colchis  town : 

Or  seven  years  changed  into  a  beast  remain, 
Nebuchadnezzar-like,   to  earth  bowed  down ; 

Or  suffer  else  such  teen  and  mickle  bale 

As  Helen's  rape  on  Trojans  did  entail; 
Or  in  Hell's  marshes  fallen  let  him  fare 
Like  Tantalus  and  Proserpine  or  bear 

A  grievouser  than  Job  his  sufferance, 

Prisoned  and  pent  in  Daedalus  his  snare, — 

Who  would  wish  ill  unto  the  realm  of  France. 


n 


Four  months  within  a  marish  let  him  plain. 
Bittern-like,  with  the  mud  against  his  crown; 

Or  sell  him  to  the  Ottoman,  to  chain 

And  harness  like  an  ox,  the  scurvy  clown ! 

Or  thirty  years,  like  Maudlin,  without  veil 


208  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Or  vesture,  let  him  his  misdeeds  bewail ; 

Or  with  Narcissus  death  by  drowning  share; 

Or  die  like  Absalom,  hanged  by  the  hair ; 
Or  Simon  Magus,  by  his  charms'  mischance; 

Or  Judas,  mad  with  horror  and  despair, — 
Who  would  wish  ill  unto  the  realm  of  France. 


Ill 


If  but  Octavian's  time  might  come  again. 

His  molten  gold  should  down  his  throat  be  thrown. 

Or  'twixt  two  millstones  he  should  grind  for  grain, 
As  did  St.  Victor ;  or  I'd  have  him  drown 

Far  out  to  sea,  where  help  and  breath  should  fail, 

Like  Jonah  in  the  belly  of  the  whale : 

Let  him  be  doomed  the  sunlight  to  forswear, 
Juno  her  goods  and  Venus  debonair, 

And  be  of  Mars  oppressed  to  utterance, — 
As  was  Antiochus  the  king,  whilere, — 

Who  would  wish  ill  unto  the  realm  of  France. 

Envoi 

Prince,  may  winds  bear  him  to  the  wastes  of  air 
Or  to  the  mid-sea  woods  and  sink  him  there: 

Be  all  his  hopes  changed  to  desesperance ; 
For  he  deserves  not  any  fortune  fair 

Who  would  wish  ill  unto  the  realm  of  France. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  20i> 

Ballad  of  the  Debate  o-f  the  Heart 
AND  Body  of  Villon 


VS^HAT  is't  I  hear?— 'Tis  I,  thy  heart:  'tis  I 
That  hold  but  by  a  thread  for  frailty, 

I  have  nor  force  nor  substance,  all  drained  dry, 
Since  thee  thus  lonely  and  forlorn  I  see, 
Like  a  poor  cur,  curled  up  all  shiveringly. 

How  comes  it  thus? — Of  thine  unwise  Hesse. — 

What  irks  it  thee? — /  suffer  the  distress. 

Leave  me  in  peace. — Why.? — I  will  cast  about. — 

When  will  that  be? — When  I'm  past  childishness. — 
/  say  no  more. — And  I  can  do  without. 

n 

What  deemest  thou.? — To  mend  before  I  die.— 

At  thirty  years? — 'Tis  a  mule's  age,  perdie. — 
Is't  childhood? — Nay. — 'Tis  madness,  then,  doth  ply 

And  grip  thee? — Where? — By  the  nape. — Seemeth 
me 

Nothing  I  know? — Yes,  flies  in  milk,  maybe: 
Thou  canst  tell  black  from  white  yet  at  a  press. — 
Is't  all? — What  words  can  (dl  thy  faults  express? — 

If't's  not  enough,  we'll  have  another  bout. — 
Thou'rt  lost. — I'll  make  a  fight  for't  none  the  less. — 

/  say  no  more. — And  I  can  do  without. 

m 

Dule  have  I,  pain  and  misery  thou  thereby : 
If  thou  wert  some  poor  idiot,  happily 


210  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Thou  mightst  have  some  excuse  thy  heart  anigh. 

Lo,  foul  and  fair  are  all  alike  to  thee. 

Or  harder  is  thy  head  than  stone  by  sea 
Or  more  than  honour  likes  thee  this  duresse. 
Canst  thou  say  aught  in  answer?     Come,  confess.- 

I  shall  be  quit  on't  when  I  die,  no  doubt. 

God !  what  a  comfort  'gainst  a  present  stress ! 

/  say  no  more. — And  I  can  do  without. 


IV 


Whence  comes  this  evil? — Surely,  from  on  high: 

When  Saturn  made  me  up  my  fardel,  he 
Put  all  these  ills  in. — 'Tis  a  foolish  lie: 

Thou  art  Fate's  master,  yet  its  slave  wilt  be. 

Thereof  see  Solomon  his  homily ; 
The  wise,  he  says,  no  planets  can  oppress : 
They  and  their  influence  own  his  mightiness. — 

Nay,  as  they've  made  me,  so  shall  it  fall  out. — 
What  sayst  thou? — 'Tis  the  faith  that  I  Profess. — 

/  say  no  more. — And  I  can  do  without. 

Envoi 

Wilt  thou  live  long? — So  God  vouchsafe  me,  yes.- — 
Then  must  thou — What  ? — Repent ;  forswear  idlesse 
And  study — What? — The  lore  of  righteousness. — 

I'll  not  forget. — Forsake  the  motley  rout 
And  to  amendment  straightway  thee  address: 
Delay  not  till  thou  come  to  hopelessness. 

/  say  no  more. — And  I  can  do  without. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  211 

Ballad 

Written  by  Villon  upon  a  Subject  Proposed  by 

Charles  Due  D'Orleans 


I  die  of  thirst,  although  the  spring's  at  hand; 

Hot  as  a  fire,  my  teeth  with  cold  do  shake: 
In  my  own  town,  I'm  in  a  foreign  land; 

Hard  by  a  burning  brazier  do  I  quake; 

Clad  like  a  king,  yet  naked  as  a  snake, 
I  laugh  through  tears,  expect  sans  hope  soe'er 
And  comfort  take  amiddleward  despair; 

Glad,  though  I  joy  in  nought  beneath  the  sun, 
Potent  am  I,  and  yet  as  weak  as  air ; 

Well  entertained,  rebuffed  of  every  one. 

II 

Nought's  dim  to  me  save  what  I  understand; 

Uncertain  things  alone  for  sure  I  take; 
I  doubt  but  facts  that  all  unquestioned  stand; 

I'm  only  wise  by  chance  for  a  whim's  sake; 

"Give  you  good-night!"  I  say,  whenas  I  wake; 
Lying  at  my  length,  of  falling  I  beware; 
I've  goods  enough,  yet  not  a  crown  to  spare! 

Leave  off  a  loser,  though  I  still  have  won ; 
Await  bequests,  although  to  none  I'm  heir; 

Well  entertained,  rebuffed  of  every  one. 

Ill 

I  care  for  nought,  yet  all  my  life  I've  planned 
Goods  to  acquire,  although  I've  none  at  stake; 


212  VILLON'S  POEMS 

They  speak  me  fairest,  by  whom  most  I'm  banned, 
And  truest,  who  most  mock  of  me  do  make: 
He  is  my  friend,  who  causes  me  mistake 

Black  ravens  for  white  swans  and  foul  for  fair; 

Who  doth  me  hurt,  I  hold  him  debonair; 

'Twixt  truth  and  lying  difference  see  I  none ; 

Nought  I  conceive,  yet  all  in  mind  I  bear; 
Well  entertained,  rebuffed  of  every  one. 

Envoi 

Most  clement  Prince,  I'd  have  you  be  aware 
That  I'm  like  all  and  yet  apart  and  rare; 

Much  understand,  yet  wit  and  knowledge  shun: 
To  have  m}'  wage  again  is  all  my  care; 

Well  entertained,  rebuffed  of  every  one. 

Ballad  of  Villon's  Request  to 
THE  Due  De  Bourbon 


Gracious  my  lord  and  prince  of  mickle  dread, 
Flower  of  the  Lily,  Royal  progeny, 

Francois  ViJlon,  whom  dule  and  teen  have  led 
To  the  blind  strokes  of  Fate  to  bend  the  knee, 
Sues  by  this  humble  writing  unto  thee, 

That  thou  wilt  of  thy  grace  to  him  make  loan. 

Before  all  courts  his  debit  he  will  own: 
Doubt  not  but  he  thy  right  will  satisfy. 

With  interest  thereunder  due  and  grown: 
Nothing  but  waiting  shalt  thou  lose  thereby. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  213 


n 


Of  no  prince  has  thy  creature  borrowed, 

Save  of  thyself,  a  single  penny  fee: 
The  six  poor  crowns  were  wholly  spend  in  bread. 

That  whiles  thy  favour  did  advance  to  me. 

All  shall  be  paid  together,  I  agree. 
And  that  right  soon,  ere  many  days  be  flown ; 
For  if  in  Patay  wood  are  acorns  known 

Or  chestnuts  thereabouts  folk  sell  and  buy 
In  season  thou  shalt  have  again  thine  own : 

Nothing  hut  waiting  shalt  thou  lose  thereby. 

ui 

If  I  could  sell  my  youth  and  lustihead 

Unto  the  Lombards,  usurers  that  be. 
Lack-gold  has  brought  me  to  such  piteous  stead, 

I  do  believe  I  should  the  venture  dree. 

In  purse  or  belt  no  money  can  I  see: 
I  wonder  what  it  is,  by  God  His  throne! 
For  unto  me,  save  it  be  wood  or  stone. 

No  cross  at  all  appears, — I  do  not  lie: 
But,  if  the  true  cross  once  to  me  be  sh-^wn, 

Nothing  but  rvaiting  shalt  thou  lose  thereby. 

Envoi 

Prince  of  the  Lys,  that  lov'st  good  deeds  alone, 
Think'st  thou  it  has  not  cost  me  many  a  groan 

That  I  can  not  to  my  intent  draw  nigh? 
Give  ear,  if  it  so  please  thee,  to  mv  moan : 

Nothing  but  waiting  shalt  thou  lose  thereby. 


SUNDRY  POEMS 
ATTRIBUTED  TO  VILLON 


Here  Follow  Sun'dry  Poems  Commonly 
Attributed  to  Master  Frax(,ois 

ViLLOX 


ROUNDEL 


Farewell,  I  so  if,  with  tearful  eye. 

Farewell,  the  dearest  sweet  to  see! 

Farewell,  o'er  all  the  kindest  she! 
Farewell,  with  heavy  heart  say  I. 
Farewell,  my  love,  my  soul,  good-bye ! 

My  ])oor  heart  needs  must  part  from  thee; 
Farewell,  I  say,  xvith  tearful  eye. 

Farewell,  by  whose  default  I  die 

Deaths  more  than  told  of  tongue  can  be: 
farewell,  of  all  the  world  to  me 

Whom  most  I  blame  and  hold  most  high! 
Farewell,  I  say,  with  tearful  eye. 

A  Merry  Ballad  of  Vintners 


By  dint  of  dart,  by  push  of  sharpened  spear. 
By  sweep  of  scythe  or  thump  of  spike-set  mace. 

By  poleaxe,  steel-tipped  arrow-head  or  shear 
Of  double-handed  svvoi'd  or  well-ground  ace. 
By  dig  of  dirk  or  tuck  with  double  face. 

Let  them  be  done  to  death:  or  lit  Hmmu  licrht 


217 


218  VILLON'S  POEMS 

On  some  ill  stead,  where  brigands  lurk  by  night, 
That  they  the  hearts  from  out  their  breasts  may 

tear, 
Cut  off  their  heads,  then  drag  them  by  the  hair 

And  cast  them  on  the  dunghill  to  the  swine, 
That  sows  and  porkers  on  their  flesh  may  fare, 

The  vintners  that  put  water  in  our  wine. 

n 

Let  Turkish  quarrels  run  them  through  the  rear 
And  rapiers  keen  their  guts  and  vitals  lace; 

Singe  their  perukes  with  Greek  fire,  ay,  and  sear 
Their  brains  with  levins;  string  them  brace  ky 

brace 
Up  to  the  gibbet;  or  for  greater  grace. 

Let  gout  and  dropsy  slay  the  knaves  outright: 

Or  else  let  drive  into  each  felon  wight 
Irons  red-heated  in  the  furnace-flare: 
Let  half  a  score  of  hangmen  flay  them  bare ; 

And  on  the  morrow,  seethed  in  oil  or  brine. 

Let  four  great  horses  rend  them  then  and  there. 

The  vintners  that  put  water  in  our  wine. 

ni 

Let  some  great  gunshot  blow  their  heads  off  sheer; 
Let  thunders  catch  them  in  the  market-place; 

Let  rend  their  limbs  and  cast  them  far  and  near, 
For  dogs  to  batten  on  their  bodies  base : 
Or  let  the  lightning-stroke  their  sight  efface. 

Frost,  hail  and  snow  let  still  upon  them  bite ; 

Strip  off  their  clothes  and  leave  them  naked  quite, 


VILLON'S  POEMS  219 

For  rain  to  drench  them  in  the  open  air ; 

Lard  them  with  knives  and  poniards  and  then  bear 
Their  carrion  forth  and  soak  it  in  the  Rhine; 

Break  all  their  bones  with  mauls  and  do  not  spare 
The  vintners  that  put  water  in  our  wine. 

Envoi 

Prince,  may  God  curse  their  vitals!  is  ray  prayer; 

And  may  they  burst  with  venom  all,  in  fine, 
These  traitorous  thieves,  accursed  and  unfair. 

The  vintners  that  put  water  in  our  wme. 

Ballad  of  the  Tree  of  Love 


I  HAVE  within  my  heart  of  hearts  a  tree, 

A  plant  of  Love,  fast  rooted  therewithin. 
That  bears  no  fruit,  save  only  misery ; 

Hardship  its  leaves  and  trouble  its  flowers  bitt. 

But,  since  to  set  it  there  Love  did  begin. 
It  hath  so  mightily  struck  root  and  spread 
Tliat,  for  its  shadow,  all  my  cheer  is  fled 

And  all  my  joys  do  wither  and  decay: 
Yet  win  I  not,  of  all  my  lustihead, 

Other  to  plant  or  tear  the  old  away. 


n 


Year  after  year,  its  branches  watered  be 

With  tears  as  bitter  and  as  salt  as  sin; 
And  yet  its  fruits  no  fairer  are  to  see 


220  VILI.OX'S  POEMS 

Nor  any  comfort  therefrom  can  I  win: 

Yet  pluck  I  them  among  the  leavis  thin ; 
My  heart  thereon  full  bitterly  is  fed, 
That  better  had  lain  fallow,  ay,  or  dead, 

Than  to  bear  fruits  of  poison  and  dismay; 
But  Love  his  law  allows  me  not  instead 

Other  to  plant  or  tear  the  old  away. 


Ill 


If,  in  this  time  of  May,  when  wood  and  lea 

Are  broidered  all  with  leaves  and  blossoms  sheen, 

Love  would  vouchsafe  this  succour  unto  me, — 
To   prune   away   the  boughs   that   lie  between, 
That  so  the  sun  among  the  buds  be  seen, 

And  imp  thereon  some  graft  of  goodlihead, — 

Full  many  a  pleasant  burgeon  would  it  shed. 

Whence  joy  should  issue,  lovelier  than  the  day; 

And  no  more  where  despair  solicited 
Other  to  plant  or  tear  the  old  away. 

Envoi 

Dear  my  Princess,  my  chiefest  hope  and  dread. 
Whom  my  heart  serves  in  penitential  stead. 

The  woes  that  harrow  it  do  thou  allay 
And  suffer  not  thy  constant  thought  be  led 

Other  to  plant  or  tear  the  old  away. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  221 

Ballad  of  Ladies'  Love 
No.  I 


Well  enough  favoured  and  with  substance  still 
Some  little  stored,  chance  brought  me  'neath  love's 
spell 

And  day  and  night,  until  I  had  my  will, 
I  pined  in  languor  unendurable : 
I  loved  a  damsel  more  than  I  can  tell ; 

But,  with  good  luck  and  rose-nobles  a  score, 

I  had  what  men  of  maids  have  had  before. 
Then,  in  myself  considering,  I  did  say : 

"Love  sets  by  pleasant  speech  but  little  store ; 
The  •wealthy  gallant  always  gains  the  day.^^ 


n 

So  chanced  in  that,  whilst  coin  my  purse  did  fill. 
The  world  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell 

And  I  was  all  in  all  with  her,  until, 

Without  word  said,  my  wanton's  loose  eyes  fell 
L'^pon  a  graybeard,  rich  but  foul  as  hell: 

A  man  more  hideous  never  women  bore. 

But  what  of  that?     He  had  his  will  and  more: 
And  I,  confounded,  stricken  with  dismay. 

Upon  this  text  went  glosing  passing  sore: 

^^The  wealthy  gallant  always  gains  the  day.'*^ 


222  VILLON'S  POEMS 


III 


Now  she  did  wrong;  for  never  had  she  ill 

Or  spite  of  me:  I  cherished  her  so  well 
That,  had  she  asked  me  for  the  moon,  my  skill 

I  had  essayed  to  storm  heaven's  citadel. 

Yet,  of  sheer  vice,  her  body  did  she  sell 
Unto  the  service  of  that  satyr  hoar: 
The  which  I  seeing,  of  my  clerkly  lore 

I  made  and  sent  to  her  a  piteous  lay : 
And  she:   "Lack-gold  undid  thee:"  words  but  four.j 

The  wealthy  gallant  always  gains  the  day. 


Envoi 

Fair  Prince,  more  skilled  than  any  one  of  yore 
In  pleasant  speech,  look  thou  have  coin  galore 

Within  thy  pouch :  as  Meung  that  clerk  so  gay 
And  wise,  hath  told  us,  in  the  amorous  war 

The  wealthy  gallant  always  gams  the  day. 


Ballad  of  Ladies'  Love  * 
No.  2 

Here  Endeth  the  Book  of  the  Poems 
OF  Master  Frav^ois  Villon 

*  This  Ballad  is  omitted. 


THREE  TRANSLATIONS  BY 
DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


TZLI 

Ls 

ffbe 

Ni 

SI 
But 

Wti 

F 

Lo, 


Wl 


The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies 

Tell  me  now  in  wliat  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  v/here  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  ri\er  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human? 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


•   c 


Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 
(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen!) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At   Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


225 


226  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Save  with  this  much  for  an  overword, — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

II 

To  Death,  of  His  Lady 

Death,  of  thee  do  I  make  my  moan, 
Who  hadst  my  lady  away  from  me, 
Nor  wilt  assuage  thine  enmity 

Till  with  her  life  thou  hast  mine  own ; 

For  since  that  hour  my  strength  has  flown. 
Lo  !  what  wrong  was  her  life  to  thee. 

Death? 

Two  we  were,  and  the  heart  was  one; 

Which  now  being  dead,  dead  I  must  be, 

Or  seem  alive  as  lifelessly 
As  in  the  choir  the  painted  stone, 

Death ! 

Ill 

His  Mother's   Service  to  Our  Lady 

Lady  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  therewithal 

Crowned  Empress  of  the  nether  clefts  of  Hell,- 

I,  thy  poor  Christian,  on  thy  name  do  call. 
Commending  me  to  thee,  with  thee  to  dwell, 
Albeit  in  nought  I  be  commendable. 

But  all  mine  undeserving  may  not  mar 

Such  mercies  as  thy  sovereign  mercies  are ; 
Without  the  which  (as  true  words  testify) 


VILLON'S  POEMS  227 

No  soul  can  reach  thy  Heaven  so  fair  and  far. 
Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Unto  thy  Son  say  thou  that  I  am  His, 
And  to  me  graceless  make  Him  gracious. 

Sad  Mary  of  Egypt  lacked  not  of  that  bliss. 
Nor  yet  the  sorrowful  clerk  Theophilus, 
Whose  bitter  sins  were  set  aside  even  thus 

Though  to  the  Fiend  his  bounden  service  was. 

Oh  help  me,  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 

(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby!) 

The  blessed  Host  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 
Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

A  pitiful  poor  woman,  shrunk  and  old, 
I  am,  and  nothing  learn'd  in  letter-lore. 

Within  my  parish-cloister  I  behold 

A  painted  Heaven  where  harps  and  lutes  adore, 
And  eke  an  Hell  whose  damned  folk  seethe  full  sore: 

One  bringeth  fear,  the  other  joy  to  me. 

That  joy,  great  Goddess,  make  thou  mine  to  be, — 
Thou  of  whom  all  must  ask  it  even  as  I ; 

And  that   which   faith  desires,   that  let   it   see. 
For  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

O  excellent  Virgin  Princess !  thou  didst  bear 
King  Jesus,  the  most  excellent  comforter, 

Who  even  of  this  our  weakness  craved  a  share 
And  for  our  sake  stooped  to  us  from  on  high. 

Offering  to  death  His  young  life  sweet  and  fair. 

Such  as  He  is,  Our  Lord,  I  Him  declare. 
And  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 


TEN  TRANSLATIONS  BY  ALGERNON 
CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


The  Complaint  of  the  Fair  Armouress 


Meseemeth  I  heard  cry  and  groan 

That  sweet  who  was  the  armourer's  maid ; 

For  her  young  years  she  made  sore  moan, 
And  right  upon  this  wise  she  said : 

"Ah  fierce  old  age  with  foul  bald  head, 

To  spoil  fair  things  thou  art  over  fain ; 

Who  holdeth  me?  who?  would  God  I  were  deaid! 

Would  God  I  were  well  dead  and  slain ! 


**Lo,  thou  hast  broken  the  sweet  yoke 
That  my  high  beauty  held  above 

All  priests   and   clerks   and   merchant-folk; 
There  was  not  one  but  for  my  love 
Would  give  me  gold  and  gold  enough. 

Though  sorrow  his  very  heart  had  riven. 
To  win  from  me  such  wage  thereof 

As  now  no  thief  would  take  if  given. 

231 


232  VILLON'S  TOEMS 


III 


"I  was  right  chary  of  the  same, 

God  wot  it  was  my  great  folly, 
For  love  of  one  sly  knave  of  them. 

Good  store  of  that  same  sweet  had  he; 

For  all  ni}'  subtle  wiles,  perdie, 
God  wot  I  loved  him  well  enow ; 

Right  evilly  handled  me, 
But  he  loved  well  my  gold,  I  trow. 


IV 


t<i 


Though  I  gat  bruises  green  and  black, 
I  loved  him  never  the  less  a  jot; 

Though  he  bound  burdens  on  my  back. 
If  he  said,  'Kiss  me,  and  heed  it  not,' 
Right  little  pain  I  felt,  God  wot, 

When  that  foul  thief's  mouth,  found  so  sweet, 
Kissed  me — Much  good  thereof  I  got! 

I  keep  the  sin  and  the  shame  of  it. 


"And  he  died  thirty  year  agone. 

I  am  old  now,  no  sweet  thing  to  see; 
By  God,  though,  when  I  think  thereon. 

And  of  that  good  glad  time,  woe's  me, 

And  stare  upon  my  changed  body 
Stark  naked,  that  has  been  so  sweet. 

Lean,  wizen,  like  a  small  dry  tree, 
I  am  nigh  mad  with  the  pain  of  it. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  233 


VI 


"\\Tiere  is  my  faultless  forehead's  white, 

The  lifted  eyebrows,  soft  gold  hair. 
Eyes  wide  apart  and  keen  of  sight, 

With  subtle  skill  in  the  amorous  air; 

The  straight  nose,  great  nor  small,  but  fair. 
The  small  carved  ears  of  shapeliest  growth, 

Chin  dimpling,  colour  good   to  wear. 
And  sweet  red  splendid  kissing  mouth? 


vn 


<( 


The  shapely  slender  shoulders  small, 
Long  arms,  hands  wrought  in  glorious  wise, 
Round  little  breasts,  the  hips  withal 
High,  full  of  flesh,  not  scant  of  size. 

Fit  for  all  amorous  masteries ; 

♦  *  *  *  * 

•  *  »  ♦  ♦ 

♦  *  ♦  *  « 


vm 


"A  writhled  forehead,  hair  gone  grey, 

Fallen  eyebrows,  eyes  gone  blind  and   red. 
Their  laughs  and  looks  all  fled  away. 

Yea,  all  that  smote  men's  hearts  are  fled ; 

The  bowed  nose,  fallen  from  goodlihead : 
Foul  flapping  ears  like  water-flags ; 

Peaked  chin,  and  cheeks  all  waste  and  dead, 
And  lips  that  are  two  skinny  rags: 


234  VILLOxN'S  TOEMS 

IX 

"Thus  endeth  all  the  beauty  of  us. 

The  arms  made  short,  the  hands  made  lean, 
The  shoulders  bowed  and  ruinous, 

The  breasts,  alack !  all  fallen  in ; 

The  flanks  too,  like  the  breasts,  grown  thin; 

***** 

For  the  lank  thighs,  no  thighs  but  skin. 
They  are  specked  with  spots  like  sausage-meat. 


"So  we  make  moan  for  the  old  sweet  days, 

Poor  old  light  women,  two  or  three 
Squatting  above  the  straw-fire's  blaze. 

The  bosom  crushed  against  the  knee, 

Like  fagots  on  a  heap  we  be. 
Round  fires  soon  lit,  soon  quenched  and  done; 

And  we  were  once  so  sweet,  even  we ! 
Thus  fareth  many  and  many  an  one." 


II 

A  Double  Ballad  of  Good  Counsel 

Now  take  your  fill  of  love  and  glee. 
And  after  balls  and  banquets  hie; 

In  the  end  ye'll  get  no  good  for  fee, 
But  just  heads  broken  by  and  by; 


VILLON'S  P0E:\IS  235 

Light  loves  make  beasts  of  men  that  sigh ; 
They  changed  the  faitli  of  Solomon, 

And  left  not  Samson  lights  to  spy ; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none ! 

Sweet  Orpheus,  lord  of  minstrelsy. 

For  this  with  flute  and  pipe  came  nigh 
The  danger  of  the  dog's  heads  three 

That  ravening  at  hell's  door  doth  lie; 

Fain  was  Narcissus,  fair  and  shy, 
For  love's  love  lightly  lost  and  won, 

In  a  deep  well  to  drown  and  die ; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none ! 

Sardana,  flower  of  chivalry, 

Who  conquered  Crete  with  horn  and  cry, 
For  this  was  fain  a  maid  to  be 

And  learn  with  girls  the  thread  to  ply ; 

King  David,  wise  in  prophecy. 
Forgot  the  fear  of  God  for  one 

Seen  washing  either  shapely   thigh; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

For  this  did  Amnon,  craftily 

Feigning  to  eat  of  cakes  of  rye, 

Deflower  his  sister  fair  to  see. 

Which  was  foul  incest ;  and  hereby 
Was  Herod  moved,  it  is  no  lie. 

To  lop  the  head  of  Baptist  John 

For  dance  and  jig  and  y)saltcry ; 

Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 


236  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Next  of  myself  I  tell,  poor  me, 

How  thrashed  like  clothes  at  wash  was  I 
Stark  naked,  I  must  needs  agree; 

Who  made  me  eat  so  sour  a  pie 

But  Katherine  of  Vaucelles?  thereby 
Noe  took  third  part  of  that  fun ; 

Such  wedding-gloves  are  ill  to  buy; 
Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 

But  for  that  young  man  fair  and  free 

To  pass  those  young  maids  lightly  by, 

Nay,  would  you  burn  him  quick,  not  he; 

Like  broom-horsed  witches  though  he  fry, 
They  are  sweet  as  civet  in  his  eye; 

But  trust  them,  and  you're  fooled  anon; 
For  white  or  brown,  and  low  or  high, 

Good  luck  has  he  that  deals  with  none! 


Ill 
Fragment  on  Death 

And  Paris  be  it  or  Helen  dying, 

Who  dies  soever,  dies  with  pain. 

He  that  lacks  breath  and  wind  for  sighing, 
His  gall  bursts  on  his  heart;  and  then 
He   sweats,   God   knows   what   sweat!   again, 

No  man  may  ease  him  of  his  grief; 

Child,  brother,  sister,  none  were  fain 

To  bail  him  thence  for  his  relief. 


VILLON'S  POEMS  237 

Death  makes  him  shudder,  swoon,  wax  palu, 

Nose  bend,  veins  stretch,  and  breath  surrender, 
Neck  swell,  flesh  soften,  joints  that  fail 

Crack  their  strained  nerves  and  arteries  slender. 

O  woman's  body  found  so  tender. 
Smooth,  sweet,  so  precious  in  men's  eyes, 

Must  thou  too  bear  such  count  to  render? 
Yes ;  or  pass  quick  into  the  skies. 

IV 

Ballad  of  the  Lords  of  Old  Time 
(after  the  former  argument) 

What  more?     Where  is  the  third  Calixt, 

Last  of  that  name  now  dead  and  gone, 
Who  held  four  years  the  Papalist? 

Alfonso  king  of  Aragon, 

The  gracious  lord,  duke  of  Bourbon, 
And  Arthur,  duke  of  old  Britaine? 

And    Charles    the    Seventh,    that    worthy    one? 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

The  Scot  too,  king  of  mount  and  mist. 

With  half  his  face  vermilion. 
Men  tell  us,  like  an  amethyst 

From  brow  to   chin  that  blazed  and  shone ; 

The  Cypriote  king  of  old  renown, 
Alas !  and  that  good  king  of  Spain, 

Whose  name  I  cannot  think  upon? 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 


238  VILLON -S  POEMS 

No  more  to  say  of  them  I  list ; 

'Tis  all  but  vain,  all  dead  and  done: 
For  death  may  no  man  born  resist, 

Nor  make  appeal  when  death  comes  on. 

I  make  yet  one  more  question ; 
Where's  Lancelot,  king  of  far  Bohain? 

Where's   he   whose   grandson    called   him    son? 
Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 

Where  is  Guesclin,  the  good  Breton? 

The  lord  of  the  eastern  mountain-chain, 
And  the  good  late  duke  of  Alen9on? 

Even  with  the  good  knight  Charlemain. 


Ballad  of  the  Women  of  Paris 

Albeit  the  Venice  girls  get  praise 

For  their  sweet  speech  and  tender  air, 
And  though  the  old  women  have  wise  ways 

Of  chaffering  for  amorous  ware, 

Yet  at  my  peril  dare  I  swear, 
Search  Rome,  where  God's  grace  mainly  tarries, 

Florence  and  Savoy,  everywhere. 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

The  Naples  women,  as  folk  prattle. 

Are  sweetly  spoken  and  subtle  enough: 

German  girls  are  good  at  tattle, 

And  Prussians  make  their  boast  thereof; 


MLLOX'S  rOE.MS  '239 

Take  Egypt  for  the  next  remove, 
Or  that  waste  land  the  Tartar  harries, 

Spain  or  Greece,  for  the  matter  of  love, 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Breton  and  Swiss  know  nougiit  of  the  matter, 

Gascony  girls  or  girls  of  Toulouse ; 
Two  fishwomen  with  a  half-hour's  chatter 

Would  shut  them  up  by  threes  and  twos  ; 

Calais,  Lorraine,  and  all  their  crews, 
(Names  enow  the  mad  song  marries) 

England  and  Picardy,  search  them  and  choose, 
There's  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

Prince,  give  praise  to  our  French  ladies 

For  the  sweet  sound  their  speaking  carries ; 

'Twixt  Rome  and  Cadiz  many  a  maid  is, 
But  no  good  girl's  lip  out  of  Paris. 

VI 

Ballad  Written  for  a  Bridegroom 

which  villon  gave  to  a  gentleman  newly  mar- 
ried to  send  to  his  wife  whom  he  had  won 
with  the  sword 

At  daybreak,  when  the  falcon  claps  his  wings. 
No  whit  for  grief,  but  noble  heart  and  high 

With  loud  glad  noise  he  stirs  himself  and  springs. 
And  takes  his  meat  and  towai'd  his  lure  draws  nigh ; 
Such  good  I  wish  you !     Yea,  and  heartily 


240  VILLON'S  POEMS 

I  am  fired  with  hope  of  true  love's  meed  to  get; 

Know  that  Love  writes  it  in  his  book ;  for  why, 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

Mine  own  heart's  lady  with  no  gainsayings 

You  shall  be  always  wholly  till  I  die ; 
And  in  my  right  against  all  bitter  things 

Sweet  laurel  with  fresh  rose  its  force  shall  try; 

Seeing  reason  wills  not  that  I  cast  love  by 
(Nor  here  with  reason  shall  I  chide  or  fret) 

Nor  cease  to  serve,  but  serve  more  constantly; 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

And,  which  is  more,  when  grief  about  me  clings 

Through  Fortune's  fit  or  fume  of  jealousy, 
Your  sweet  kind  eye  beats  down  her  threatenings 

As  wind  doth  smoke ;  such  power  sits  in  your  eye. 

Thus  in  your  field  my  seed  of  harvestry 
Thrives,  for  the  fruit  is  like  me  that  I  set; 

God  bids  me  tend  it  with  good  husbandry ; 
This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

Princess,  give  ear  to  this  my  summar}^ ; 

That  heart  of  mine  your  heart's  love  should  forget, 
Shall  never  be :  like  trust  in  you  put  I : 

This  is  the  end  for  which  we  twain  are  met. 

VII 

Ballad  Against  the  Enemies  of  France 

May  he  fall  in  with  beasts  that  scatter  fire, 

Like  Jason,  when  he  sought  the  fleece  of  gold, 


VILLON'S  POEMS  241 

Or  change  from  man  to  beast  three  years  entire, 

As  King  Nebuchadnezzar  did  of  old ; 
Or  else  have  times  as  shameful  and  as  bad 
As  Trojan  folk  for  ravished  Helen  had: 
Or  gulfed  with  Proserpine  and  Tantalus 
Let  hell's  deep  fen  devour  him  dolorous, 

With  worse  to  bear  than  Job's  worst  sufferance, 
Bound  in  his  prison-maze  with  Daedalus, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

May  he  four  months,  like  bitterns  in  the  mire, 

Howl  with  head  downmost  in  the  lake-springs 
cold 
Or  to  bear  harness  like  strong  bulls  for  hire 

To  the  Great  Turk  for  money  down  be  sold ; 
Or  thirty  years  like  Magdalen  live  sad. 
With  neither  wool  nor  web  of  linen  clad: 
Drown  like  Narciss',  or  swing  down  pendulous 
Like  Absalom  with  locks  luxurious, 

Or  liker  Judas  fallen  to  reprobance ; 
Or  find  such  death  as  Simon  sorcerous, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

May  the  old  times  come  of  fierce  Octavian's  ire, 

And  in  his  belly  molten  coin  be  told ; 
May  he  like  Victor  in  the  mill  expire, 

Crushed  between  moving  millstones  on  him  rolled, 
Or  in  deep  sea  drenched  breathless,  more  adrad 
Than  in  the  whale's  bulk  Jonas,  when  God  bade: 
From  Phoebus'  light,  from  Juno's  treasure-house 
Driven,  and  from  joys  of  Venus  amorous. 

And  cursed  of  God  most  high  to  the  utterance, 


•242  VILLON'S  POEMS 

As  was  the  Syrian  king  Antiochus, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France ! 

ENVOY 

Prince,  may  the  bright-winged  brood  of  ^olus 
To  sea-king  Glaucus'  wild  wood  cavernous 

Bear  him  bereft  of  peace  and  hope's  least  glance, 
For  worthless  is  he  to  get  good  of  us, 

Who  could  wish  evil  to  the  state  of  France! 

VIII 

The  Dispute  of  ttie  Heart  and  Body  of 
Francois  Villon 

Who  is  this  I  hear? — Lo,  this  is  I,  thine  heart, 
That  holds  on  merely-  now  by  a  slender  string. 

Strength  fails  me,  shape  and  sense  are  rent  apart, 
The  blood  in  me  is  turned  to  a  bitter  thing. 
Seeing  thee  skulk  here  like  a  dog  shivering. — 

Yea,    and    for    what? — For    that    thy    sense    found 
sweet.— 

What  irks  it  thee? — I  feel  the  sting  of  it. — 

Leave  me  at  peace. — Why  ? — Nay  now,  leave  me 
at  peace ; 

I  will  repent  when  I  grow  ripe  in  wit. — 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

What   art   thou,   trow? — A  man   worth   praise  per- 
fay.— 
This  is  thy  thirtieth  year  of  wayfaring. — 
'Tis  a  mule's  age. — Art  thou  a  boy  still? — Nay. — 
Is  it  hot  lust  that  spurs  thee  with  its  sting. 
Grasping   th}'    throat?      Know'st    thou    not   any- 
thing?— 


VILLON'S  POEMS  243 

Yea,  black  and  nhite,  when  milk  is  specked  with  flies, 
I  can  make  out. — No  more? — Nay,  in  no  wise. 

Shall  I  bcf^in  again  the  count  of  these? — 
Thou  art  undone. — I  will  make  shift  to  rise. — 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

I  have  the  sorrow  of  it,  and  thou  the  smart. 

Wert  thou  a  ])oor  mad  fool  or  weak  of  wit, 
Then    might'st   thou    yilcad   this    pretext   with    thine 
heart ; 

But  if  thou  know  not  good  from  evil  a  whit, 

Either  thy  head  is  hard  as  stone  to  hit. 
Or  shame,  not  honour,  gives  thee  most  content. 
What  canst  thou  answer  to  this  argument? — 

When  I  am  dead  I  shall  be  well  at  ease. — 
God !  what  good  luck ! — Thou  art  over  eloquent. — 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

Whence  is  this  ill? — From  sorrow  and  not  from  sin. 

When  Saturn  packed  my  wallet  up  for  me 
I  well  believe  he  put  these  ills  therein. — 

Fool,  wilt  thou  make  thy  servant  lord  of  thee? 

Hear  now  the  wise  king's  counsel ;  thus  saith  he ; 
All  power  upon  the  stars  a  wise  man  hath : 
There  is  no  planet  that  shall  do  him  scathe. — 

Nay,  as  they  mad?  me  I  grow  and  I  decrease. — 
What  say'st  thou? — Truly  this  is  all  my  faith. — 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. — 

W^ouldst  thou  live  still  ? — God  help  me  that  I  may ! — 
Then  thou  must — ^Vllat?  turn  penitent  and  pray.'' — 
Read   always — What? — Grave   words    and   good   to 
say; 


244  VILLON'S  POEMS 

Leave  off  the  ways  of  fools,  lest  they  displease. — 
Good:  I  will  do  it. — Wilt  thou  remember? — Yea. — 
Abide  not  till  there  come  an  evil  day. 

I  say  no  more. — I  care  not  though  thou  cease. 

IX 

Epistle  in  Form  of  a  Ballad  to  His  Friends 

Have  pity,  pity,  friends,  have  pity  on  me, 

Thus  much  at  least,  may  it  please  you,  of  your 
grace ! 

I  lie  not  under  hazel  or  hawthorn-tree 

Down  in  this  dungeon  ditch,  mine  exile's  place 
B}'  leave  of  God  and  fortune's  foul  disgrace. 

Girls,  lovers,  glad  young  folk  and  newly  wed, 

Jumpers  and  jugglers,  tumbling  heel  o'er  head. 
Swift  as  a  dart,  and  sharp  as  needle-ware, 

Throats  clear  as  bells  that  ring  the  kine  to  shed, 
Your  poor  old  friend,  what,  will  you  leave  hira 
there .'' 

Singers  that  sing  at  pleasure,  lawlessly. 

Light,  laughing,  gay  of  word  and  deed,  that  race 

And  run  like  folk  light-wittcd  as  ye  be 

And  have  in  hand  nor  current  coin  nor  base. 
Ye  wait  too  long,  for  now  he's  dying  apace. 

Rhvmcrs  of  lays  and  roundels  sung  and  read, 

Ye'll  brew  him  broth  too  late  when  he  lies  dead. 
Nor  wind  nor  lightning,  sunbeam  nor  fresh  air. 

May  pierce  the  thick  wall's  bound  where  lies  his  bed ; 

Your  poor  old  friend,  what,  will  you  leave  him  there? 
there  ? 


VILLON'S  POEMS  245 

O  noble  folk  from  tithes  and  taxes  free, 

Come  and  behold  him  in  this  piteous  case, 

Ye  that  nor  king  nor  emperor  holds  in  fee, 
But  only  God  in  heaven ;  behold  his  face 
Who  needs  must  fast,  Sundays  and  holidays, 

Which  makes  his  teeth  like  rakes ;  and  when  he  hath 
fed 

With  never  a  cake  for  banquet  but  dry  bread. 

Must  drench  his  bowels  with  much  cold  watery  fare, 

With  board  nor  stool,  but  low  on  earth  instead ; 

Your  poor  old  friend,  what,  will  you  leave  him  there? 

Princes  afore-named,  old  and  young  foresaid, 
Get  me  the  king's  seal  and  my  pardon  sped, 

And  hoist  me  in  some  basket  up  with  care: 
So  swine  will  help  each  other  ill  bested. 
For  where  one  squeaks  they  run  in  heaps  ahead. 

Your  poor  old  friend,  what,  will  you  leave  him 
there  ? 

X 

The  Epitaph  in  Form  of  a  Ballad 

which    villon    made    for   himself   and    his   com- 
rades, expecting  to  be  hanged  alon<j  with 

THEM 

Men,  brother  men,  that  after  us  yet  live. 
Let  not  your  hearts  too  hard  against  us  be; 

For  if  some  pity  of  us  poor  men  ye  give. 
The  sooner  God  shall  take  of  you  pity. 
Here  are  we  five  or  six  strung  uj),  you  see, 


246  VILLON'S  POEMS 

And  here  the  flesh  that  all  too  well  we  fed 
Bit  by  bit  eaten  and  rotten,  rent  and  shred, 

And  we  the  bones  grow  dust  and  ash  withal; 
Let  no  man  laugh  at  us  discomforted, 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

If  we  call  on  you,  brothers,  to  forgive, 

Ye  should  not  hold  our  prayer  in  scorn,  though  we 
Were  slain  by  law ;  ye  know  that  all  alive 

Have  not  wit  alway  to  walk  righteously ; 

Make  therefore  intercession  heartily 
With  him  that  of  a  virgin's  womb  was  bred, 
That  his  grace  be  not  as  a  dry  well-head 

For  us,  nor  let  hell's  thunder  on  us  fall; 
We  are  dead,  let  no  man  harry  or  vex  us  dead, 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

The  rain  has  washed  and  laundered  us  all  five, 
And  the  sun  dried  and  blackened ;  yea,  perdie, 

Ravens  and  pies  with  beaks  that  rend  and  rive 
Have  dug  our  eyes  out,  and  plucked  off  for  fee 
Our  beards  and  eyebrows ;  never  we  are  free, 

Not  once,  to  rest ;  but  here  and  there  still  sped, 

Drive  at  its  wild  will  by  the  wind's  change  led, 
More  pecked  of  birds  than  fruits  on  garden-wall; 

Men,  for  God's  love,  let  no  gibe  here  be  said, 
But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 

Prince  Jesus,  that  of  all  art  lord  and  head, 
Keep  us,  that  hell  be  not  our  bitter  bed; 

We  have  nought  to  do  in  such  a  master's  hall. 
IV?  not  ye  therefore  of  our  fellowhead. 

But  pray  to  God  that  he  forgive  us  all. 


On  the  following  pages  will  be  found 
the  complete  list  of  titles  in  "The  Mod- 
ern Library,"  including  those  published 
during  the  Fall  of  Nineteen  Hundred 
and  Nineteen.  New  titles  are  added 
in  the  Spring  and  Fall  of  every  year. 


THE  MODERN  LIBRARY 

OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 

Hand  Bound  in  Limp  Croft  Leather,  only  85c.  por  copy. 
Postage  6c.  per  copy  extra. 

TWO  years  ago,  the  Modern  Library  of  the  World's 
Best  Books  made  its  appearance  with  twelve  titles. 
It  was  immediately  recognized,  to  quote  the  New 
York  Times,  "as  filling  a  need  that  is  not  quite 
covered  by  any  other  publication  in  the  field  just  now."* 
The  Dial  hastened  to  say  "The  moderns  put  their  best 
foot  forward  in  the  Modern  Library.  There  is  scarcely 
a  title  that  fails  to  awaken  interest  and  the  series  in 
doubly  welcome  at  this  time."  A  week  or  so  after  the 
publication  of  the  first  titles,  The  Independent  wrote: 
"The  I\Iodern  Library  is  another  step  in  the  very  right 
direction  of  putting  good  books  into  inexpensive  form." 
and  the  clever  Editor  of  the  Chicago  Daily  News,  in  a 
long  review,  concluded  :  "The  Modern  Library  astonishes 
the  cynical  with  the  excellence  of  its  choice  of  titles. 
You  could  stand  before  a  stack  of  these  books,  shut 
your  eyes  and  pick  out  the  right  one  every  time." 
Despite  this  enthusiasm,  in  publishing  circles  it  was 
considered  impossible  to  continue  the  sale  of  these  at- 
tractive Hand  Bound  Limp  Croftleather  books,  printed 
in  large  clear  type  on  good  paper,  at  any  price  under 
One  Dollar  a  volume.  But  the  large  number  of  intelligeiu 
book  buyers,  a  much  larger  group  than  is  popularly 
supposed,  has  not  only  made  possible  the  continuation  of 
this  fine  series  at  the  low  price  of  Eighty-five  Cents  a 
volume,  but  has  enabled  us  progressively  to  make  it  a 
better  and  more  comprehensive  collection.  There  are 
now  eighty- four  titles  in  the  series  and  from  eight  to 
fifteen  new  ones  are  being  added  each  Spring  and  Fall. 
And  in  mechanical  excellence,  too,  the  books  have  been 
constantly  improved. 

Many  distinguished  American  and  foreign  authors  have 
said  that  the  Modern  Library  is  one  of  the  most  stimu- 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 

lating  factors  in  American  intellectual  life.  Practically 
everybody  who  knows  anj-thing  about  good  books  owns 
a  number  of  copies  and  generally  promises  himself  to 
own  them  all.  .  .  .  One  of  the  largest  book  stores  in  the 
country  reports  that  more  copies  of  the  Modern  Library 
are  purchased  for  gifts  than  any  other  books  now  being 
issued. 

The  sweep  of  world  events  has,  of  course,  been  a  con- 
tributing influence  to  our  success.  Purposeful  reading 
is  taking  the  place  of  miscellaneous  dabbling  in  litera- 
ture, and  the  Modern  Library  is  being  daily  recommended 
by  notable  educators  as  a  representative  library  of  mod- 
ern thought.  Many  of  our  titles  are  being  placed  on 
college  lists  for  supplementary  reading  and  they  are 
being  continuously  purchased  by  the  American 
Library  Association  for  Government  camps  and 
schools. 

The  list  of  titles  onithe  following  six  pages  (together 
with  the  list  of  introductions  written  especially  for  the 
Modern  Library),  indicates  that  our  use  of  the  term 
"^lodern"  does  not  necessarily  mean  written  within  the 
last  few  years.  Voltaire  is  certainly  a  modern  of  mod- 
erns, as  are  Samuel  Butler,  Francois  Villon,  Theophile 
Gautier  and  Dostoyevsky, 

Many  of  the  books  in  the  Modern  Library  are  not 
reprints,  but  are  new  books  which  cannot  be  found  in  any 
other  edition.  None  of  them  can  be  had  in  any  such 
convenient  and  attractive  form.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
find  any  other  editions  of  any  of  these  books  at  double 
the  price.  They  can  be  purchased  wherever  books  are 
sold  or  you  can  get  them  from  the  publishers. 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 
LIST  OF  TITLES 

For  convenience  in  ordering  please  use  number  at  right  cf  title. 

A  MODERN  BOOK  OF  CRITICISMS  (81) 

Fdited  with  an  Introduction  by 
LUDWIG  LEWISHON 

ANDREYEV,  LEONID   (1871-        ) 

The   Seven    That    Were   Hanged   and  The   Red 
Laugh    (45) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 

ATHERTON,  GERTRUDE 
Rezanov   (71) 

Introduction  by  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

BALZAC,  HONORE  DE    (1799-1850) 

Short  Stories   (40) 
BAUDELAIRE,  PIERRE  CHARLES     (1821-1867) 

His  Prose  and  Poetry   (70) 

BEARDSLEY,  THE  ART  OF  AUBREY (1872-189S) 
64  Black  and  White  Reproductions  (42) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

BEERHOHM,  MAX   (1872-        ) 
Zuleika  Dobson  (50) 

Introduction  by  FRANCIS  HACKETT 

BEST  GHOST  STORIES   (73) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  B.  REEVE 

BEST  HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  SHORT 
STORIES  (87) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ALEXANDER  JESSUP 
BEST    RUSSIAN   SHORT    STORIES    (18) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL   (1835-1902) 

The  Way  of  All  Flesh  (13) 
CARPENTER,  EDWARD   (1844-         ) 

Love  Coming  of  Age  (51) 

CHEKHOV,  ANTON  (1860-1904) 

Rothschild's  Fiddle  and  Thirteen  Other 
Stories   (31) 

CHESTERTON,  G.  K.  (1874-         ) 

The  Man  Who  Was  Thursday  (35) 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 

D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE   (1864-         ) 
The  Flame  of  Life  (65) 

DAUDET,  ALPHONSE  (1840-1897) 
Sapho  (85) 

In     same     volume     with     Prev-ost's    "Maion 
Lescaut" 

DOSTOYEVSKY,  FEDOR   (1831-1881) 
Poor   People  (10) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 

DOWSON,  ERNEST  (1867-1900) 
Poems  and  Prose   (74) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

DUNSANY,  LORD  (Edward  John  Plunkett) 
US78-  ) 

A  Dreamer's  Tales  (34) 

Introduction  by  PADRIAC  COLUM 

Book  of  Wonder  (43) 

EVOLUTION  IN  MODERN  THOUGHT  (37> 
A  Symposium,  including  Essays  by  Haeckei, 
Thomson,  Weismann,  etc. 

FLAUBERT,  GUSTAVE   (1821-1880) 
Madame  Bovary  (28) 

FRANCE,  ANATOLE  (1844-         ) 

The  Red  Lily   (7) 

The  Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  (22) 
Introduction  by  L.-\FCADIO  HEARN 
GAUTIER,  THEOPHILE   (1811-1872) 

Mile,  de  Maupin  (53) 

GEORGE,  W.  L.   (1882-         ) 
A  Bed  of   Roses  (75) 

Introduction  by  EDGAR  SALTUS 
GILBERT,  W.  S.   (1836-1911) 

The  Mikado.  The  Pirates  of  Penzance.  lolanthe. 
The  Gondoliers   (26) 

Introduction  by  CL.ARENCE  DAY,  Jr. 

GISSING,  GEORGE  (1S57-1903) 

The   Private  Papers  of   Henry  Ryecroft   (46) 

Introduction  by  PAUL  ELMER  MORE 

De  GONCOURT,  E.  and  J.    (1822-1896)    (1830-1870) 
Renee  Mauperin  (76) 

Introduction  bv  EMILE  ZOLA 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 

GORKY,  MAXIM  (1868-        ) 

Creatures  That   Once  Were  Men  and  Four 
Other  Stories  (48) 

Introduction  by  G.  K.  CHESTERTON 

HARDY,  THOMAS  (1840-        ) 

The   Mayor  of   Casterbridge    (17) 
Introduction  by  JOYCE  KILIVLER 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN   (1837-        ) 
A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes  (25) 

introduction  by  ALEXANDER  HARVEY 

IBANEZ,  VICENTE  BLASCO   (1867-        ) 
The  Cabin  (69) 

Introduction  bv 

JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERHILL 

IBSEN,  HENRIK  (1828-1906) 

A  Doll's  House,  Ghosts,  An  Enemy  of  the 
People  (6);  Hedda  Gabler,  Pillars  of  Society, 
The  Master  Builder   (36) 

Introduction  by  H.  L.  MENCKEN 
The  Wild  Duck,   Rosmersholm,  The  League  of 
Youth  (54) 

JAMES,  HENRY   (1843-1916) 

Daisy  Miller  and  An  International  Episode  (63) 

Introduction  by  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD   (1865-         ) 
Soldiers   Three    (3) 

LATZKO,  ANDREAS   (1876-         ) 
Men  in  War  (88) 

MACY,  JOHN   (1877-         ) 

The   Spirit  of  American  Literature  (56) 

MAETERLINCK,  MAURICE  (1862-         ) 

A  Miracle  of  St.  Antony,  Pelleas  and  Melisande, 
The  Death  of  Tintagiles,  AUadine  and  Palomides, 
Interior,  The  Intruder  (11) 

De  MAUPASSANT,  GUY  (1850-1893) 
Love  and  Other  Stories  (72) 

Edited  and  translated  with  an  Introduction  by 

MICHAEL  MONAHAN 
Mademoiselle  Fifi,  and  Twelve  Other  Stories  (8) 
Une  Vie  (57) 

Introduction  by  HENRY  JAMES 


Modern    Library   of  the   World's   Best   Books 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE    (1828-1909) 
Diana  of  the  Crossways   (14) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

MOORE,  GEORGE   (1853-         ) 

Confessions  of  a  Young   Man   (16) 

Introduction  by  FLOYD  DELI. 

NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH    (1844-1900) 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  (9) 

Introduction  by 

FRAU  FOERSTER-NIETZSCHE 
Beyond  Good  and  Evil   (20) 

Introduction  by 

WILLARD  HUXTIXGTON  WRIGHT 
Genealogy  of  Morals   (62) 

NORRIS,  FRANK    (1870-1902) 
McTeague    (60) 

Introduction  by  HENRY  S.  PANCOAST 

PATER,  WALTER  (1839-1894) 
The  Renaissance   (86) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

PREVOST,  ANTOINE   FRANCOIS    (1697-1763) 
Manon  Lescaut  (85) 

In   same  volume  with  Daudet's  Sapho 

RODIN,  THE  ART  OF    (1840-1917) 

64  Black  and  White  Reproductions  (41) 
Introduction  by  LOUIS  WEINBERG 

ROOSEVELT,  THEODORE    (1858-1919) 

Selected  Addresses  and  Public  Papers  (78) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ALBERT  BUSHNELL  HART 

SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR    (1862-         ) 

Anatol,  Living  Hours,  The  Green  Cockatoo  (32> 

Introduction  by  ASHLEY  DUKES 
Bertha  Garlan  (39) 

SCHOPENHAUER,  ARTHUR    (1738-1S60) 
Studies  in  Pessimism  (12) 

Introduction  by  T.  B.  SAUNDERS 

SHAW,  G.  B.   (1856-         ) 

Aji  Unsocial  Socialist  (15) 


Modern   Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 

SINCLAIR,  MAY 
The  Belfry  (68) 

STEPHENS,  JAMES 
Mary,   Mary  (30) 

Introduction  by  PADRIAiC'GOLUM 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  LOUIS    (1850-1894N 
Treasure  Island  (4) 

STIRNER,  MAX  (Johann  Caspar  Schmidt) 

The   Ego  and  His  Own  (49) 

STRINDBERG,  AUGUST    (1849-1912) 

Married  (2) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 
Miss  Julie,  The  Creditor,  The  Stronjier  Woman, 

Motherly  Love,  Paria,  Simoon  (52) 

SUDERMANN,  HERMANN  (1857-         ) 
Dame  Care   (33) 

SWINBURNE,   ALGERNON    CHARLES 

(1837-1909) 

Poems  (23) 

Introduction  by  ERNEST  RHYS 

THOMPSON,  FRANCIS    (1859-1907) 
Complete   Poems   (38) 

TOLSTOY,  LEO   (1828-1910) 

Redemption  and  Two  Other  Plays  (77) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  HOPKINS 
The  Death  of  Ivan  Uyitch  and  Four  Other 
Stories  (64) 

TRAUBEL,  HORACE    (1858-        ) 
Chants  Communal  (79) 

Special    Introduction    by    the   author    for    this 
edition 

TURGENEV,  IVAN   (1818-1883) 
Fathers  and  Sons  (21) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 
Smoke   (80) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  REED 

VILLON,  FRANCOIS    (1431-1461) 
Poems  (58) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  PaYNE 


Modern    Library   of   the   World's   Best   Book; 

VOLTAIRE.  (FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET) 

(1694-1778) 

Candide    (47) 

Introduction  by  PHILIP  LITTELL 

WELLS,  H.  G.  (1866-        ) 
The  War  in  the  Air  (5) 

Xew  Preface  by  H.  G.  Wells  for  this  edition 

Ann  Veronica  (27) 

WILDE,  OSCAR    (1856-1900) 

Dorian  Gray  (1) 

Poems  (19) 

Fairy  Tales  and  Poems  in  Prose  (61) 

Salome,  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest, 

Lady  Windermere's  Fan  (83) 

Introduction  by  EDGAR  SALTUS 

An  Ideal   Husband,  A  Woman  of  No 
Importance   (84) 

WILSON,  WOODROW   (1856-        ) 
Selected  Addresses  and  Public  Papers  (55) 

F.dited  with  an  Introduction  bv 
ALBERT  RUSHXELL  HART 

WOMAN  QUESTION,  THE  (59) 

A  Symposium,  including  Essays  by  Ellen  Key, 
Havelock  Ellis,  G.  Lowes  Dickinson,  etc. 

Edited  by  T.R.  SMITH 

YEATS,  W.  B.   (1865-         ) 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  (44) 


edition  ii 

TURGENEV,  IVAN    (1818-1883)  ' 

Fathers  and  Sons  (21) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 
Smoke    (80) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  REED 

VILLON,  FRANCOIS    (1431-1461) 
Poems   (58) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  PaYNE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  Is  DUE  on  the  fast  date  stamped  below. 


my  : 

w>^*'   "' 

^m'^'^'^ 

r-  ^■^'  . 

♦f 


JP,\^ 


03 


o  ^* 


HORAXe-SROOtK-f-  I 


AI»H*.. 


